The Secrets of Paper and Ink

by Lindsay Harrel

  “You can put others first without counseling them, you know.” Abigail raised an eyebrow.

  Of course she knew that. But being a therapist was a surefire way to make sure she remained others-centered—and that she didn’t descend into the depths of self-pity that could easily become her home at any moment if she thought too hard about her past.

  Abigail continued. “Can I ask you something? Why are you here today?”

  “I’m confused. You said you might be able to help us.”

  “Yes, but I mean why are you on this quest to begin with?”

  Sophie shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know why I’m doing this. I came to England to . . . well, to overcome the past. And something tells me that finding out more about Emily’s story is part of that, though I don’t understand how.”

  Taking a biscuit in hand, Abigail dunked it, then tapped it against the side of her cup. She took a bite and chewed, thoughtful. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that life is often a puzzle. We have the right pieces, but they’re all jumbled up. Sometimes we try to complete the puzzle in a hurry, and pieces that don’t really belong together get shoved into place. Then, frustrated, we tear it all apart once more. My mother and I loved doing puzzles together. But she always had to remind me to put together the frame first before filling in the middle. That’s like life too. What you’re doing is good. Take it one step at a time. The picture on the puzzle might not even make sense until the last piece is popped into place. Then it will form a beautiful picture.”

  Abigail stared at Sophia like she expected a response. But how was she supposed to respond to that? The analogy had stirred something within her, but she wasn’t sure what. Longing, perhaps? Gratitude?

  “Abigail.” William’s gentle voice broke the tension.

  His friend seemed to shake herself from intense focus. She inclined her head to him and smiled. “Have you tried the scones, clotted cream, and jam? If not, you must.”

  He picked up a scone, cut it open, and placed a dollop of cream and red jam inside. “Now, fascinating as this conversation is, we’ve come to discuss the story by or about Emily Fairfax. What help can you offer us?”

  “Of course.” Abigail wiped her hands on a napkin. “You’ll forgive my rambling, Sophia. My spirit is just very drawn to yours.” She smiled softly. “But I did promise to help. When reading over the pages in question, one thing stood out to me. There’s a mention of the okirah bush.”

  “What’s that?” Sophia scoured her memory. “That was something that grew in Edward’s family gardens, right?”

  “Exactly. The okirah bush went extinct in the early twentieth century. The only known observations of it were in Cornwall, and its popularity peaked in the Victorian era. It was a plant that took a skilled hand to maintain. Only the wealthy could afford to hire gardeners with the expertise to do so.”

  Finally a clue, however small. Leaning forward, Sophia’s knee bumped the coffee table, sending her tea spilling over the edges of the cup onto her saucer. She snatched a napkin to clean the mess, but mostly kept her eyes on Abigail. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. The fact that it’s mentioned at all is surprising, given its virtual anonymity and obscure existence. Other than the fact it’s extinct now, there is nothing extraordinary about the bush. This leads me to believe that the story might not be fiction, unless written by a Cornish botanist or horticulturist.”

  “How do you know about it then?”

  Abigail averted her gaze, staring off toward the window behind Sophia. “Nature has always allured me. As a girl, I became something of a fanatic, studying all manner of geography, botany, geomorphogeny, and geology. My parents gave me a large encyclopedia of plants in primary school. I have a very good memory, so . . .” She shrugged. “The okirah bush is stuck in my brain somewhere between oak leaf hydrangea and ornamental onion.”

  “I see.” Sophia smiled.

  William folded his hands together and bounced a knee. “What about the tree? The one where Emily and Edward meet up? Do you recall any mentions of trees such as that one in the area where the okirah bush was known to grow?”

  Abigail’s lips tucked into a slight frown. She leaned back in her chair, her shoulders crunching downward. “Not immediately, but something is niggling the back of my mind. Give me some time to do a bit of research and I’ll get back to you. I have your e-mail.”

  Another disappointing halt to their search. While Abigail had provided the grain of a next step, there was nothing concrete in the information she’d provided. They’d just have to wait and see if she came up with any other information.

  “Well? Not so bad, is it?” William leaned forward, elbows resting on the pub table, a huge boyish grin plastered on his face.

  Sophia forced herself to keep chewing, then to swallow. She inhaled a half glass of ice water before she could answer. “That. Was. Disgusting.”

  “Oh, come on.” He took another bite of his haggis. “It’s Scotland’s national dish.”

  After they’d left Abigail’s, William had given Ginny a call—no answer. They’d headed back toward their hotel, which was located in Piccadilly Circus, and wandered the area until dinnertime, when they’d stumbled across a quaint Scottish pub.

  “It’s made of sheep innards. But at least I can now say I’ve tried it.” She speared a turnip and dipped it in her mashed potatoes—or neeps and tatties, as the menu had proclaimed the side dishes to be—and took a bite. Thank goodness this part was edible. “I can cross that one off the bucket list for good.”

  “Ah, there’s a list?”

  Wood-paneled from ceiling to floor, with an arts-and-crafts feel, the pub was dimly lit, with soft Scottish folk music lilting from speakers Sophia couldn’t see. Though the bar area was crowded with patrons, the small corner where she and William shared a booth was tucked away enough to feel private. Intimate. Almost like a date.

  Was she ready for that?

  “Doesn’t everyone have a list? I recently read a blog by a woman who had a heart transplant and later fulfilled her donor’s bucket list. She traveled all over the world doing the things this girl never got to do. Isn’t that neat?” Sophia took another sip of water.

  “That is indeed very neat.” William set down his fork and wiped his mouth with his black paper napkin. “But I want to know what’s on your list.”

  “Just the usual stuff.” The things that had been on her list before she’d met David seemed so trite now. And the ones she’d placed there after he’d died seemed too personal—frankly, even somewhat impossible. “How about you?”

  With a swig of wine, William’s face grew thoughtful. He took her avoidance in stride. “I’ve been planning a sabbatical sometime in the next few years. I’d like to travel a bit, do some research in the old cathedrals across Europe, that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  “I think so. But ultimately, I want to take the time to write a book.”

  “Like Emily?”

  Smiling, he shook his head. “Not exactly. I want to write a book about how grace has changed my life.”

  “Grace? Who’s that? Or do you mean grace with a little g?”

  A short red candle on the table between them flickered.

  William smiled. “Little g. The man you see before you is not who I used to be. I was fairly obedient as a child, but when I went to uni, I abandoned my faith and pursued my own pleasures.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but his facial features strained against the words. “It wasn’t until my father died that I truly began to realize that the way I’d been living my life was not right. I was in a pit of despair, with no way out—and God rescued me with grace.”

  Things about William were beginning to add up—the topic of his dissertation, the fact he’d taken her to see both Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral out of all the other sights in London, the way her heart felt so comfortable with his, despite her reservations. She’d believed in God, too, once upon a time. “But . . .”
<
br />   “But what?”

  “Well, no offense, but I’ve always thought if you get yourself into a mess, you’re responsible for getting yourself out of it. Why would God become involved?” She’d grown up with faith, sure, but Sophia had since seen how the world worked. People made decisions, and those decisions had consequences. End of story.

  “I think sometimes he’s just waiting for us to realize our own limitations.”

  Sophia snatched up a dessert menu, ran her fingertips over the smooth, glossy surface. A lump formed in her throat.

  William reached across the table, tentative, and squeezed Sophia’s hand. “If you want to talk . . . well, I’m here.”

  What would it be like to tell William everything? Would he think less of her?

  Weakling. You’re nothing. David’s whispers still haunted her from the grave. But she was slowly getting better about recognizing his voice and the lies he told.

  She’d told Ginny the truth about her past, and her new friend had been nothing but supportive. Maybe the same would be true of William.

  Raucous laughter from the next booth over invaded their quiet bubble.

  She looked down at William’s thumb stroking her hand. It was always a risk to open herself up to someone new. But opening up to someone didn’t have to be the equivalent of losing herself—not this time. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They paid the tab and left the pub. The night air was brisk against her skin, filled with promise. It had grown late while they’d chatted inside, though that didn’t stop the sidewalks and streets from being crowded. Being a Saturday night in London, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The moon radiated down its light, and black lampposts lining the streets provided even more.

  Turning onto a quieter street situated in a neighborhood, Sophia worked up the courage to begin.

  “I’d like to tell you a story.” As she spilled about David and why she’d come to Cornwall, they entered a small square lined with benches. Rose beds and grass verges surrounded the perimeter, and cascading trees marked the various entry points to the square. A statue stood in the middle, raised on a paved area. Other flowers bloomed in gardens planted around the statue. Reds, blues, and yellows splashed color into the night.

  William tugged Sophia down onto a bench while she spoke. He watched her with careful eyes, sympathetic eyes—eyes full of something akin to . . . what? Was it respect?

  How could he possibly respect her? But maybe he respected her desire to become someone new. To rise from the ashes.

  If only she knew how.

  When she finished, Sophia took a shuddering breath. “So I guess that, even though I feel half the time like I’m stumbling with no direction, I’ve made some progress toward healing. But it’s hard to know when that healing will be complete, or if it ever will be. I refuse to be a victim, though. Not anymore.”

  A breeze rolled past them and made her shiver.

  William moved his arm around her shoulders, and instead of making her feel hemmed in, the gesture brought comfort. “I cannot even imagine what you’ve been through. You should have been treasured, cherished. But I so admire how strong you’ve been throughout this whole ordeal.”

  “Did you hear the part where I didn’t leave David?”

  “Sophia, you survived. Survivors are strong. You want healing. You want to move on with your life. You have not let this define you—or at least, you no longer want it to.”

  Sophia shrugged, unable to speak.

  “There’s nothing shameful in accepting help, you know. We were designed to need each other.”

  “That’s so not what I grew up believing. At least on a subconscious level.”

  “Oh?”

  How could she explain what she meant? “It’s hard to believe that when you see what ‘love’ has done to people. I still remember my mom right after my dad left. I hid on the stair banister and saw her huddled against my aunt, her breath shuddering. Then all of a sudden, she drew herself upright, wiped her tears away, and you know what she said? ‘They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Well, that’s not true. I loved deeply and now he’s gone, and I’m a simpering sack of potatoes. I refuse to let a man make me feel like this. I won’t be this weak ever again.’”

  It took William a moment to respond. “Did you ever ask her if she really meant that?”

  The question rattled the cage surrounding Sophia’s memory. “I’ve never mentioned to her that I was there, no.”

  “Maybe it was a gut reaction to her immediate circumstances. Perhaps she didn’t really mean it.”

  Whether she’d meant it or not, Sophia could now see how that moment had shaped how she saw her mom . . . and how she’d seen her own failures where David was concerned.

  “Did your mom ever remarry?” William must have sensed her reticence to discuss these new thoughts.

  “No. She never even dated again.” A light huff of laughter blew from her mouth. “Though ironically enough, she’s a wedding planner now.”

  “So maybe she still believes in love.” William’s breath hovered above her brow, a gentle warmth in the midst of the chilly night air. “What about you? Do you still believe in love despite all you’ve been through?”

  It was something she had not really let herself consider. But she felt the answer in her spirit. “Honestly?”

  “Of course.”

  “When it comes to others, yes. But as for myself . . . I’m not sure if I believe.” She paused. “But I want to.”

  William didn’t say anything, just rested his head against hers. She’d never met anyone who made her feel so much like she was stepping into a judgment-free zone, free of the shackles of her past. Like she was stepping toward something and not running away.

  It was both unnerving . . . and reassuring.

  Sophia snuggled into the crook of William’s arm, quiet for a moment. Then she took one more proverbial step forward. “So, my bucket list. You still want to know what’s on it?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s changed over the years, of course, but one thing has always been at the top.” Sophia took a deep breath, praying William wouldn’t laugh like David had. “I want to learn how to surf. Does that surprise you?”

  “I’m surprised by you every day. And I love it.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and she could feel the smile in it. “So, why surfing?”

  “My dad surfed, and I guess in a way I feel like it’s in my blood. Or it should be. Or maybe I just want to find out if it is.” She traced a figure eight on William’s arm. “I know it’s strange, but I never allowed my dad’s leaving to make me doubt myself as a person. Instead, I was just angry that he put Mom and me through that, especially Mom. Eventually I learned that hating him was only hurting me. I also started thinking that maybe not every part of him was bad. He wasn’t pure evil, even though he made mistakes. I have a few good memories from childhood. So in a weird way, I think learning to do something he loved would almost be like forming a new good memory with him. Taking back what the anger stole from me.” She blew out a laugh. “That probably only made sense in my head.”

  “It makes perfect sense.” William squeezed her shoulder. “And if you want to learn how to surf, then learn to surf you shall.”

  23

  EMILY

  JUNE 1858

  I closed the book I was reading and sighed. The main character had ended up with the right woman.

  My shoulders slumped as I leaned against a chair in the sitting room. If only real life mirrored fiction.

  Enough of this drudgery and dwelling on things I could not change.

  The children were on an outing with their mother, so I had the rare afternoon to myself. I’d thought reading would brighten my mood, but perhaps I’d have better luck with the great outdoors.

  Outside my window, the London sky was painted a striking color—if I stared at it long enough, shades of purple began to appear. Tiny wisps of clouds teased me with the way they f
litted through the sky, changing shape and becoming whatever they wished to be.

  I hooked my cape over my dress and left the room, maneuvering down the hallway and through the door that led to the small garden behind the house.

  The light from the outdoors exploded all around. Blankets of colorful flowers greeted me. Spring had asked winter to step aside and had fully bloomed in its place.

  After a few moments of walking, enjoying the breeze upon my cheeks and the bright splashes of evergreen grass and bluebells, I stopped at a plant with beautiful white flowers hanging down like bells. Struck by their beauty and their alluring fragrance, I reached out to touch one. But then I recalled something Edward had told me when I had first seen them at his family’s estate in the country: “The plant is called angel’s trumpet. However, do not be fooled by how stunning it is. The blooms are poisonous.”

  I heard raised voices around the bend, one of them Edward’s. My hand dropped, and I walked quickly toward them. Were Rosamond and Edward arguing? I couldn’t keep glee from being my first emotion at the thought.

  As I came upon the scene, I slowed my pace. It was not Rosamond but Louisa who was crying and yelling at her brother. When she saw me, she put a hand over her mouth and hurried past, leaving Edward standing there, a hand gripping the back of his neck.

  “What’s happened?” I strode forward. “Is someone ill?” I had never seen Louisa act that way and could not imagine what else would have caused such behavior.

  “No, nothing like that.” Edward blew out a breath and paced.

  “What then?”

  “Charles Miller has made an offer of marriage to Louisa, and she fancies herself in love with him.” Edward practically growled the words. “Has she said anything to you about him? Have you noticed them together much?”

  “Not any more than a handful of other men who have paid attention to her. Louisa is a beautiful girl.”

  “Beautiful and naive.” Edward started down the garden path, hands clutched behind his back.