Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  My friend brought his violin to the pub, for he relishes attention. He played a jig while I embarrassed myself by dancing on tabletops. Such behaviour came from my schoolboy days, when I clowned at the tavern more than thrice a week. I tell you this not with pride, rather to offer context. Arthur and I doth share a handful of reckless habits.

  Patrons made wagers on how many rats the pub’s cat would drag from the keg room. A foolish diversion, perhaps, but it lifted my spirits for several hours.

  Exploits with Arthur tend to ease my moods. He is a genial person, the most reliable and loyal friend in my acquaintance. I consider him my brother, for we have known each other more than a decade. You would fancy him, I think. Although he does not possess the gift of eloquence, he makes up for all shortcomings with his knack for entertainment. In Arthur Banes’s company, one shall never find oneself bored.

  The outing refreshed me until I returned to Cadwallader Manor. One step into the entrance hall, and those feelings I had endeavoured to bury within the graveyard of my mind were exhumed. I went to my study and locked its door, the ale still fogging my head. I felt wrong. Even now I cannot explain the wrongness that swelled within me, its presence dark and despondent.

  Arthur and Lorelai dine with me each night. We go on frequent walks across the moors, play games in the drawing room. I should not endure this sadness, for my guests are splendid company. They give this house purpose and strip away its shadows.

  Lorelai seems most content here. She likes to paint the landscape and spend afternoons practicing her French. Not older than eighteen, she possesses an earnest countenance. Fun and games do appeal to her but in moderation—the opposite of her cousin. I suppose the best way to describe Lorelai would be by way of her fashion. She wears an ultramarine dress made from the thickest satin. It never loses its shape, like the bun that rests at her neck.

  She and I get on quite well. A few days ago, she persuaded me to sit for one of her paintings. Arthur made jokes the whole time, which only provoked Lorelai into a rage. She lectured us both for over an hour, then conscripted Arthur to work as her assistant.

  The portrait turned out to her liking. I rather loathe it, for it depicts my physique as lean and sharp. Her image of me has skin whiter than bone and dark curls that appear long, daresay true to life. I had best groom myself and request more cakes with afternoon tea. Perhaps a large dinner—white soup paired with lambchops and potatoes—will correct my spare build.

  I need to resemble an adult if I am to lord over this estate.

  Father left his entire fortune to me. I manage his properties and assets, represent the Rochs in society. I am a gentleman, not a gentleman’s bastard, yet who am I without Father’s orders and disapproval? What shall I do with myself? Once, I mentioned my struggles to Arthur, and he laughed.

  He wishes to talk only about Eton and gossip.

  You must think me ungrateful. I have friends, wealth, and a large estate, yet I fill pages with complaints. I wish ardently to restore my wits so I may acknowledge the benisons of this world. Truly, if you find my words tedious, do tell me, and I shall cease all correspondence. Your good opinion means far more than letters.

  I hope you are well. The night we met seems a lifetime ago, and I must confess that I miss you, perhaps more than one should after such a brief encounter. You are marvellous, unlike any woman in all of England. Please do not view my compliment as mere flattery. The repetition of accolades may dim their significance, but I state mine with sincerity.

  Cadwallader Manor seems eerie today, more so than usual. I sit at my desk as a rainstorm pummels the land. Lorelai made wind chimes from old silverware and hung them outside the kitchen. They knell in the rain now.

  Perhaps I should have moved into the Roch town home in Bath, enjoyed assembly halls and warmer temperatures. However, I felt drawn to Cadwallader, for its isolation suits my moods. I do crave brighter places, though. At present, wind claps the attic shutters. Spiders weave their gossamer tapestries in corners. And the maid dusts soot from my fireplace, stirring up a smog.

  Did you fight for sleep after your father died? Were your thoughts and feelings jumbled like mine? I shall not pester you with questions, but I wish to comprehend why I grieve a man I disliked, why I desire this pen and your company more than the persons downstairs.

  Please write to me.

  Elias

  P.S. My friend in Liverpool confessed no knowledge of your location nor your existence. He claimed the only De Clare in his acquaintance is a clerk at a London bank. You must not be related to this person, for your apparel—what I remember—suggested distinguished birth. I shall continue to write as I search for you, in hope of one day posting my letters.

  April 24, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  Writing to you calms me. I retreat to my study once everyone bids their good-nights, and I scribble until my thoughts steady themselves. I seem to write for several hours a day, either to you or no one in particular. The words inside me are so palpable and consuming they withhold rest until I let them out in the world.

  My new habit vexes Arthur. He dislikes all pastimes that allow a sombre mood, except for his violin playing. To him, life should revolve around merriment and pleasure and avoid what causes discomfort. His intentions are noble, for he has seen me at my lowest. He found me in Eton’s courtyard after I received news of Mother’s death. He embraced me—which breached our school’s code of conduct—and said he would always be my family. From that day on, he has endeavoured to make life a bit easier for me. He was at my side when Father died.

  He has been at my side all these years.

  Arthur and Lorelai plan to stay at Cadwallader Manor until autumn. They want to enjoy Atteberry’s social season. At least such is their claim. I suspect they fret about me. Lorelai seems to watch my every move. Arthur insists on keeping me company throughout the day. Neither of them asks questions, but they remain on alert.

  I wish they would ask questions. Perhaps then I would find answers, and this loneliness I feel would subside. I am desperate to make sense of the fervour that plagues my thoughts, for it is full of contradiction. I suffer from isolation when surrounded by familiars. I want to be alone when I long for companionship. How strange. I live here, yet I am not here. I am somewhere else, entirely.

  Do you ever get the sense that we are not where we ought to be, as if God made an error in our placement? I sound foolish, of course. Arthur and Lorelai have right to be concerned. Perhaps I should agree to Arthur’s request and host a ball. He believes the event will make Cadwallader seem more like home. Strange enough, I am at a loss for excuses.

  Lorelai refuses to enjoy an idle moment. She assists the servants with their chores, which baffles me, for most highborn ladies consider household work a violation of their class. Lorelai does not abide by those conventions. This morning she noticed a tear in my coat and took upon the task of mending it. She repaired the hole, then stitched my initials onto the sleeve.

  She mothers Arthur and me in a gentle way, ensuring we stay out of trouble and do not visit the pub too often. After dinner we all gather in the drawing room for charades or chess, sometimes to hear Arthur play his violin. Lorelai talks but rarely about herself. She wants to know about the management of Cadwallader, a topic not usually of interest to ladies.

  Is it horrible that the longer she stays here, the less I think of her as a girl?

  Arthur and I spent the past few days hauling sheep from mud. A storm washed out some of the hills, trapping much of the estate’s herds in mire. We laboured with grounds-keepers, shepherds, farmers—anyone strong enough to rescue the animals. My body still aches from the arduous work. I pity Mrs. Dunstable the most, though, for she dealt with Arthur’s and my mess.

  She threatened to hand in her notice if I kept tracking sod through the house.

  Due to the drudgery, Arthur demands I take part in the social season. He wants to attend dinner parties, host gatherings, and dance with young ladies who fan
cy his coquetry. Yes, I shall give him the ball to satisfy his need for amusement. Besides, an introduction to the local gentry may allow me to better integrate myself. I am Lord Roch, not a bastard schoolboy.

  Illegitimate birth means little now that I have wealth and title, for money alters society’s attitude. People once stared and whispered about my father’s scandal. Not anymore. Because of my rise in station, they request my presence at their events. They curtsy and bow, introduce me to their daughters in hopes I might marry one of them.

  When I told you of my circumstances, you did not even blink, and for that I shall always be grateful. Arthur once said those things we hate about ourselves are the same things others never notice, but I did not come into this world disliking myself. Rather, I was taught to hate by people who did notice.

  Speaking of which, how are relations with your mother? I recall your mention of disagreements after your father passed. Have you reconciled? Also, do you plan to participate in the season? If so, I hope we have opportunity to meet.

  To dance with you again as we did that night—I cannot think of anything I would enjoy more.

  Cadwallader Manor will provide sanctuary while I toil to recover myself. From where I sit, the moors do not seem as desolate a place. Sheep graze across their slopes. Mist skirts the ridges and ravines. Yes, I shall endeavour to find peace here.

  Behind the manor’s east wing, where the smokehouse merges with a stone fence, resides an alcove fashioned from gorse and fallen rock. I write to you from that recess.

  Atteberry forms a cluster in the distance. I ride my horse, Willoughby, there once a week to buy stationery, for I am quite particular about my paper and ink.

  That said, despite my theatrics, life at Cadwallader is not a morbid plight. In fact, the estate’s beauty needs no words to express itself, only the eyes of those willing to see it. I choose to see, and I will endure my troubles.

  Worse things have tried to break me.

  Josephine, we did not meet by accident, for no two people meet—especially not in the serendipitous circumstance that brought us together—by mere chance. I met you, and you knew me in a moment. For that reason, I state my request a final time. Would you write to me?

  I shall not lose hope that we will meet again. Even the astronomers believe those destined to collide, whether they be stars or people, might cross paths and go their separate ways but eventually doth find themselves brought together once more. And so, I hope.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  P.S. Against my better judgement, I wrote to my father’s widow and asked if she knew your whereabouts. I have yet to receive her reply. Each day, I question whether I should forsake this pursuit, for it seems childish. Then I recall how we talked and laughed, and I wonder if perhaps you wish to find me too. Such a notion compels me to continue my search.

  THREE

  THE NOVEL

  Sir Charles Welby, of Windermere Hall, in West Yorkshire, found himself the subject of gossip when his scullery maid bore to him a son. The child possessed Lord Welby’s features, which confirmed all suspicions of paternity. Indeed, members of the household debated what best to do with the infant. They decided not to send him away, for news of his existence already plagued society, and the family dared not risk more scandal. However, to let him reside at Windermere Hall would surely prompt equal criticism.

  “What fate could befall the bastard of a well-to-do gentleman?” Lady Welby said to her husband while occupying her hands, and frustrations, with needlework. She perched on a settee in the drawing room while Lord Welby concealed himself behind a shroud of cigar smoke. “Spare the babe our family name and let him live with the servants—and his mother. Once he is grown, you may provide him with a suitable position to appease your conscience.”

  Lord Welby parted the smoke with a newspaper and peered down his snout. “My son deserves the Welby name,” he said. “I worry little about remarks spoken in idle conversation.”

  “I state my concerns to protect the boy, for men of good name require both fortune and well-thought opinions.” Lady Welby maintained an expression of indifference, holding true to the belief that a woman with her age and appearance should look content in marriage, regardless of its offerings—or lack of. “Husband, you must admit a bastard does not merit the necessary well-thought. Consider your son’s future. If you insist on forcing him into our way of life, send him to a boys’ school. No Welby—even an illegitimate—should face the world unrefined.”

  After consideration, Lord Welby conceded to his wife’s requests. He would send his son to Eton College—a boys’ school located in Berkshire. Without the child at Windermere Hall, life could resume its decorous routine, and Lady Welby might forgive the affair. She deserved his compliance, for she’d accepted his adultery with the utmost grace. No other wife—especially one pronounced barren—would permit a bastard to roam the house in broad daylight.

  “What will you call him?” Lady Welby glanced up from her needlework. She refused to meet her husband’s gaze and instead stared at the portrait of her father, which hung above the fireplace. Were all men subject to immoral acts? Of course she would never ask, for etiquette and common decency considered it best to remain unaware of man’s folly.

  And to accept love in polite doses.

  “My son may live with the servants until his eighth birthday. Then he will go to Eton for his education.” Lord Welby stood from his chair and moved to a window overlooking the south yard. Near the rosebushes lounged the mother of his child—a young maid with the darkest curls he’d ever seen. Yes, he had violated his marriage vows and by doing so faced judgement, but the shame was his to bear. He would neither inflict further embarrassment on Lady Welby nor deny his son a proper upbringing.

  The boy would one day inherit the Welby fortune.

  “His name?” Lady Welby sighed. She drummed her fingertips on the settee’s armrest, more so out of impatience than aggravation. Her sister planned to visit for dinner, which meant additional preparations. Already the clock’s hands pointed at late afternoon.

  Ever since news of the affair reached her family home in Sussex, Lady Welby’s parents regarded her with amusement and traces of pity. She couldn’t let her sister report another mishap. How else would she regain her respectability if not from a well-planned meal?

  Lord Welby turned from the window. “Elias,” he said. “We named him Elias.”

  Windermere Hall belonged to an establishment of exceptional homes. It drew persons from across the country, all of whom desired to view the estate’s gardens and galleries, Italian frescos, and modern furnishings. No house in West Yorkshire possessed the same grandeur—a fact in which Lord and Lady Welby took great pride. They enjoyed their resources, more so the privileges that came with deep pockets. They hosted dances and dinners to show off their good fortune, for society forgave all scandal in exchange for engraved invitations.

  A bastard generated little interest compared to Windermere’s silk wallpaper.

  Elias, now a young man, hurried down the servants’ stairwell. He made a sharp right, dodging a maid as she hauled bedsheets to the laundry. Upstairs belonged to the lord and lady, but downstairs a world of its own teemed with activity. Servants arranged flowers and polished shoes. The butler took stock of the pantry while footmen played cards in the dining room.

  Lord Welby recommended Elias keep his distance from the household staff, but the servants’ quarters radiated warmth, a sensation Elias had craved during his time at Eton College. He’d longed for the chambers while seated in draughty classrooms. He’d thought about the herbs drying from mantels, the clatter of pots, and the low thrum of conversations.

  Downstairs was the closest thing he had to a home.

  Elias rushed into the main kitchen, where oil lamps burned steadily and steam billowed from pots, running off the chill. He savoured the aroma of bread—rosemary sourdough, by the smell of it.

  “Sorry I’m late. Father asked me to go riding with hi
m.”

  Mrs. Capers, the cook, glanced up from her work and motioned to the tea spread. “Food’s on the table. I made those biscuits you fancy.” She tucked a strand of grey hair into her cap. “One of these days you’ll eat us out of house and home.”

  “Won’t that be an accomplishment?” Elias sat at the kitchen table across from Anne, the cook’s daughter. He reached for a teapot and poured its dark refreshment into a cup.

  “Better not let the mistress hear about your tea-time visits,” Mrs. Capers said while flitting about the kitchen. She stoked the cast iron stove, then moved to a countertop strewn with poultry and herbs. Dinner would begin in a few hours, barely enough time to stuff the goose with apples and prunes, roast it golden brown, and send it to the decker’s room.

  “Lady Welby doesn’t take kindly to intermingling,” Anne said. She hunched over a wicker basket at the table’s head, her arms wrist-deep in green beans.

  “Intermingling? I was born in the servants’ quarters. You’re more my kin than anyone upstairs.” Elias dropped a sugar cube into his tea and dissolved it with a few stirs of his spoon. He propped his elbows on the worn tabletop. A breach of etiquette. An ungentlemanly act. Indeed, the headmaster at Eton College would birch his knuckles for such behaviour.

  Elias had become well acquainted with discipline over the years.

  “Nonsense. You’ve grown into a fine lord.” Mrs. Capers brought a tray of biscuits to the table. She placed the shortbreads in front of Elias, then pinched his cheek with her forefinger and thumb. “It’s time you learned your place, Mr. Welby.”

  Her words caused a pang to ripple through Elias’s chest. He didn’t want to feel it, for all feelings stirred up emotions he’d waited years to settle. He sucked a breath to dull the sensation. He clenched and unclenched his fists. But the pain was a stone rolling into an avalanche.