Page 9 of The Swan Syndicate #1

She eyed the two stacks. Writing with quill and ink wasn’t as easy as it looked, and she’d left splotches of ink all over her first attempts.

Of course, writing a goodbye letter to Beckworth hadn’t helped since her eyes kept blurring as she wrote.

She’d finally written a clean version, though a couple ink spots had still dotted the page.

There was a lot of paper in those two piles, and she was a bit annoyed that Barrington thought she’d need an entire ream of paper to write a couple of invitations.

“Do you think you brought enough paper for me to practice in the solitude of my office?” Beckworth wasn’t wrong that she’d prefer to perform this task behind closed doors. Sebastian had helped her with the single letter she’d finally left for Beckworth.

He finished his last note and set the quill aside, closing the inkpot. “The first stack is for practicing. I understand Fitz has started a pool on how many pages will be required before you can complete a clean invitation.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t hold back the snort. “Good to see everyone finds my lack of skills entertaining. I’d like to get in on the bet.” It had to be difficult for Barrington to remain impassive because there was no doubt he found this more than humorous. “So what’s the second stack for?”

He stared at her as if she were daft. “For your swans, of course.”

She blinked away the stabbing pain in the back of her eyes that threatened waterworks was close at hand.

“Of course,” she managed to spurt out. She twisted her hands together, realized what she was doing, then pressed the palm of her hands on her dress, slowly pressing out non-existent wrinkles.

She caught Barrington’s grin as she lifted her gaze seconds before it disappeared.

“The second reason I needed to speak with you was to go over the current guest list for the hunting weekend.” When she simply stared, unsure how to respond, he continued, “It’s a common duty for the lady of the manor to care for the guest list, the meal menus, the entertainment between hunts, and so forth.

” He grinned as the blood left her face.

“You’re fortunate that Mary happens to be here early. ”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re having fun with this.”

He chuckled. “A bit.”

They spent thirty minutes going over the list while Barrington explained who everyone was, providing titles and why they were important to Beckworth.

She’d assumed Beckworth had met most of them while working for the duke, and she was mostly correct.

The interesting part was that most of them despised the duke yet seemed to hold a fondness for Beckworth. The man was a charmer.

Once she was comfortable with the list, he gave her tips on how to work the quill and gave her the seat behind the desk.

Before he left, he gave a last glance back.

“What?”

“Beckworth is going to need time to acclimate.”

“I know.”

He studied her for a long moment, his thumb playing at the silver ring on his finger she hadn’t noticed him wearing the last time she’d been at Waverly. She’d have to ask Beckworth about it. When he seemed satisfied with whatever he saw, he gave her a brief nod and closed the door behind him.

She stood and stretched, glancing around the room. She’d only spent a few days at Waverly before leaving for Baywood, but she felt like she knew the manor. Though the only room she knew intimately was Beckworth’s bedroom.

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 to stay, 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.”