Page 13 of The Swan Syndicate
She smiled.
She’d already spoken with Libby about the evening she’d planned for their first night back. Candles, wine, and a roaring fire that would burn to embers before they finished making love. Her eyes closed as the image played through her mind. Then they snapped open.
After tomorrow, once her plan was underway, there would be no telling the next time they’d make love. She snorted. Sometimes, her conniving ways were worth the risk.
She turned to the desk and selected a page from each stack. They were the same, and she laid one on the desk and returned the other to what would be her swan stack.
When she’d returned to Baywood, brokenhearted at leaving Beckworth, she’d stopped making the swans. After he miraculously traveled to the future to find her and decided tostay, she picked up the habit again. She didn’t make them as often as she used to, but she appreciated having the paper available.
Unable to think of any other reason to procrastinate, she cleared a spot on the desk, grabbed several pages and set them to her left. She opened the inkpot and set the blotting sand behind it. Barrington said the quill was a goose feather and it felt familiar in her hand. The first time she’d attempted to write she’d used too much pressure and stopped writing before the quill ran out of ink, creating splotches.
She rolled up her sleeves and ran the quill over the paper without ink, getting a feel for the rhythm and flow. Then she dipped the quill in the inkpot, gently tapped the side to expel excess ink and wrote her first words.
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
She laughed out loud, surprised at the unexpected memory. When she was a little girl, her mother borrowed a library book and a friend’s typewriter to learn how to type. She kept it in the washroom, covered with an old towel when she wasn’t practicing. The only time her mom would practice was when her father was at work. The quick brown fox passage was the standard as it used all twenty-six letters of the alphabet.
She frowned and wiped an eye. One day, her father had come home early from work. He’d injured his hand in an accident. Mother hadn’t expected him, and he’d walked in while she was hunched over the typewriter, completely immersed in her typing.
Father saw Stella in the kitchen and made her go to Mrs. Brewster’s to see if they had any eggs. She didn’t understand at the time because they had their own chickens and plenty of eggs, but after one glance at her mother’s face, she raced out of the house.
When she came home, Mother was in the kitchen making dinner and refused to look at her. Father was in the living room watching TV and drinking a beer. There was no sign of the typewriter, and Stella had never seen it again.
She wadded up the paper, forcing the memory away, and tossed it across the room. This wasn’t difficult. It doesn’t have to be perfect the first time out. She placed a new sheet in front of her, dipped the quill, and, using a light touch, began again.
This is the journal of Stella, the Swan, Caldway.
She grinned. That was better. She lost herself in the writing, not realizing she was journaling. It was scattered—her kidnapping, meeting Beckworth, and then Sebastian, her first trip across the Channel to France, and the ensuing storm. Tears welled when she recounted the hunt for the chronicles and Beckworth trading himself for her, then her riding to the East End in London, calling upon Beckworth’s friends to help find him. And they did.
Once she completed recording her time in the past, she turned to memories of Baywood. She’d barely started when the door burst open, making her jump. Fortunately, the quill had run dry, or her new dress would have been covered in ink spots.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. Barrington said you’d be here.” Beckworth leaned against the doorframe. He was dressed in his viscount attire—tan breeches, a dark blue waistcoat and cravat, and a white shirt. His hair had been pulled back, and his cheeks were red.
“How’s the foal?” she asked.
“He’s the spitting image of his father. Would you like to see him?”
“Yes, but I think it needs to wait until tomorrow.” She laid down the quill and stretched. The stack of written pages had grown. “I didn’t realize how long I’ve been here. Have you been with the foal all this time?”
“No. I went with Fitz to retrieve Mary and Eleanor. Mary is resting upstairs. Eleanor wants to see you, but she wanted to check in with Mrs. Walker first.” He picked up the half-filled page and nodded. “I think you’ve mastered the quill.”
He laid the paper down and pulled her up from the chair. His kiss was passionate and lasted longer than she expected since the study door was open. She tugged him closer.
When he finally pulled back, she quirked a smile. “I thought Eleanor was looking for me.”
He grinned. “She is. And that wasn’t a prelude for something more. I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this after dinner. But first, I want to take you on a tour of Waverly. You can work on the invitations tomorrow.” He took her hand and led her to the door.
“I’ve seen Waverly.”
His gaze filled with mischief. “Not all of it. Eleanor can catch up.”
6
Exhaustion plagued Stella with each step she climbed. It seemed someone added more steps to reach the second floor. Would this day ever end?
When she finally made it to the bedroom, she sighed with relief to see Libby laying out her nightgown and robe. She had left her moss-colored robe behind, but the lavender-colored one waiting for her was just as silky. Her thoughts immediately imagined Beckworth taking it off her inch-by-inch.
“Do you want me to help you with your hair?” Libby asked as she lit another lamp.
