Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  I believe Mr. Banes has written to him and requested his return to Durham. Arthur hates the thought of working for his father. He wishes to study music in Paris and tour Europe. For the longest time, he even considered joining the navy. He is more tenderhearted than one might expect. Any change or worry, no matter how slight, traps him in a pit of nostalgia. He only seems to remember the good, though. His memories of Eton include recreations in the yard and our secret society gatherings, not the birched knuckles and tasteless food.

  Arthur refuses to share what bothers him. Whenever I ask, he laughs and tells me to cheer up. He smacks the back of my head. He drinks another pint.

  Writing has become my diversion from such things. I write so as not to fret about Lorelai, Arthur, and my inheritance. I write so as to avoid another panic episode.

  The pastime seems like pouring wine into water. It improves the taste of my life but does little else. Where are you, Josephine? Each day that passes without news of you magnifies this sense—this ache—that I shall never hear from you again. I find my letters almost pointless.

  Poets use countless words to describe their pain, but I need only three: I miss you.

  Cadwallader is a palette of grey, coloured by black birds in the gorse shrubs and Lorelai’s blue dress. I want more red and gold, more laughter and music. I want more of you.

  After everything we have endured, I must cling to the belief that our stories will collide in the end. I need hope. And if I cannot hope in us, I shall lose hope in everything else.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  June 1, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  Be not alarmed on reading this letter, by the apprehension that it might renew the sentiments described in my previous messages. I wish not for your discomfort, only to continue the friendship we began weeks ago. Indeed, my writing is not a means to subject you to flirtation or declaration of intentions, which would, of course, be inappropriate.

  Please do not allow my foolishness to prevent your correspondence.

  Your friend,

  Elias Roch

  P.S. Both my accountant and great-uncle sent news from London. They met a Mr. Rupert De Clare who recently buried his brother. I plan to contact the family and enquire about you.

  June 12, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  Arthur died yesterday. He fell off his horse during a hunt, an accident caused by too much ale. The doctor said Arthur bashed his skull on a rock and likely did not suffer. I disagree, for when I rushed to my friend’s side, he was awake and struggling to speak. I lifted him into my lap and rode over the south ridge, but he passed on before we reached the house.

  I am not sure what more to write. Etiquette requires me to soften this news with formalities, but I cannot muster them. Arthur Banes died in a blink. Now his body lies on the dining room table, swaddled by a wool shroud.

  Lorelai refuses to leave her chambers. She will not eat, nor will she receive visitors. Mrs. Dunstable paces the halls like a distressed hound while my cook prays over Arthur’s corpse. What a horrible word. Blame, is that all he is—nothing more than a dead creature?

  I must send word to Arthur’s family and request their presence at his funeral. I have grieved so much, but loss does not dim with practice. If anything, it gains momentum.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  June 13, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  This manor no longer seems a haven, rather a graveyard. Its eerie demeanour confines me to my chambers, where I huddle near the fireplace. Ghosts do not lurk in the corridors. However, they haunt my thoughts. I covet the fire’s glow, so memories cannot claim me.

  Arthur died two days ago. His body lies downstairs, washed and clothed, surrounded by flowers. The longer he stays above ground, the more unsettled everyone becomes. My cook will not visit the main floor. Mrs. Dunstable rents a room at White Horse Inn, for she refuses to stay at Cadwallader past nightfall.

  Pray my letters reach Arthur’s kin soon. They reside in Durham, a day’s ride south. Lord willing, they shall come and allow me to bury Arthur in the estate’s cemetery. I must put this tragedy behind me. I cannot sleep without reliving his death. Whenever I close my eyes, I watch him tumble off his horse. I hear the crack of his skull against stone.

  Rest denies Lorelai too.

  Last night I found her in the dining room, crouched beside Arthur. She held a single candle. Its flame wavered in the darkness, its wax forming lumps on her fingers. She did not react to the burns. Instead, she hummed a lullaby jagged with sobs.

  She claimed the house was too silent.

  She missed Arthur’s music.

  I knelt beside her and kept quiet, for words could not ease her pain. A gut-wrenching ache burrowed down my throat into my lungs.

  The loss did not seem real even then. Arthur was sprawled in front of me, white as porcelain, yet my mind whispered, “He’s fine. All shall be well tomorrow.” I wanted to cry with Lorelai. I needed to get mad and sob and tell her I was sorry for letting him drink that day. I was so very sorry. But my tongue was still. And I could not shed a tear. I was porcelain, yet I was living, and my friend was dead. He was dead. Nothing would be well tomorrow.

  Lorelai spoke about her relationship with Arthur, their childhoods, how she thought of him as a brother. She leaned against my shoulder and cried.

  You told me everyone suffers anguish, yet we consider it a malady, something to conceal and medicate. You said we should talk about what pains us, but I believe there are some pains best left unspoken. Words give power to feelings, and not all feelings deserve power. Indeed, suffering together eases the isolation of grief. However, it cannot prevent the grief.

  Sorrow is a sharable weight but a solo process.

  When dawn flooded the room with blue light, I forced Lorelai to stand. A gentleman would have coddled and comforted, but exhaustion dulled my manners. I guided her to a back door and said, “Waste no more tears, Miss Glas. Arthur does not require our watch nor our lament.”

  Lorelai and I exited the manor. We moved through the garden to a pasture coated with dew. There, among the tall grass, we sat and watched gossamer clouds float across the horizon.

  I invited Lorelai to stay at Cadwallader until she feels able to return home. Our exchange at the ball soured our closeness, but I still consider her a friend. We loved Arthur, and we lost him. What could be a more appropriate reason to mend our rift? Besides, I wish not to be alone in this house. Even the faintest creak sends chills up my spine.

  Please do not go lightly into our separation, Josephine. If I am to lose you forever, I best know soon, while these wounds, this anguish, are deep and fresh. Let me suffer the loss of you now, before I rise off my knees and endeavour a step forward. Let me grieve. Let me break. Or be real and let me speak to you once more. What should mean so little has altered me entirely.

  My fire burns low. I must venture beyond these four walls to retrieve wood. Do wish me luck. No matter how bright the sunrises, this place remains a shadowland.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  June 17, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  We buried Arthur today. Lorelai arranged the funeral, a humble service in the estate’s cemetery followed by a reception at the main house. The following people were in attendance: Lady Seymore, Edward and Mary Rose, the vicar of a local parish, and Arthur’s relations. His parents and two younger siblings arrived from Durham yesterday afternoon, much to my staff’s relief. Six days with a dead man in the dining room had created a foul stench.

  Pardon my indelicacies. I do not know the proper way to report a death. When my mother passed, the servants buried her without fuss, according to Father’s cook. A vicar read scriptures before they lowered her into the ground. The housekeeper sang an off-key rendition of “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” Then everyone returned to the manor for afternoon tea.

  I did not cry during Arthur’s funeral. Mary Rose snivelled
. Lorelai wept into a handkerchief. But I remained dry-eyed and stiff, every fibre of my body taut with rage or sadness—or the guilt of drinking with Arthur that day. If possible, I would have torn open my chest and crawled out of the hurt. I would have returned to the manor and dumped its store of alcohol into the kitchen yard.

  Humanity knows not to take big things for granted. We understand the importance of loved ones, health, acceptance, but what about the billion other elements that define who we are? Big we see. For big, we toss and turn at night, fearing big loss. And yet the little things we overlook. Forgetting to savour life’s details, such as the taste of fresh scones or the scent of books opened for the first time, is our greatest deprivation. Such pleasures are not subject to change. However, we change. Our hearts break, and pastries lose their flavour. Love dies, and our senses dull. By losing a big thing, we lose all the littles by default.

  The funeral reception served currant scones flavoured with lemon curd. I took a bite, and the cake turned to ash in my mouth. All I could think about was Arthur’s coffin.

  If not for the guests, I would have emptied my stomach into a chamber pot.

  Mr. Banes approached me while his wife mourned in the drawing room. He grabbed my shoulder and said, “It wasn’t your fault, lad.” His statement lifted a weight from my shoulders, but it did not absolve me. No, I was not to blame. Everyone knew of Arthur’s reckless behaviour.

  I blame myself, though.

  The family plans to stay at Cadwallader until tomorrow morning. Lorelai entertains them downstairs while I sit in Arthur’s former bedroom. His belongings—clothes, figurines, a cricket bat—clutter the space. Someone needs to pack the items into a trunk, but I cannot manage it.

  Grief follows me, Josephine. Must I lose every person and thing I hold dear? Love and loss coincide, I suppose. Love teaches us how to live with, and loss forces us to live without.

  We love so we can lose.

  Elias

  P.S. The De Clare Family in London replied to my query. They are not familiar with you.

  NINE

  THE NOVEL

  Josephine De Clare seemed to pull light into Cadwallader Park. For an entire week, she and Elias wandered the estate. They put on plays with Kitty and Fitz, swapped ghost stories at dinner, and made fun of Sebastian’s tall hats. Elias laughed until his stomach hurt. He smiled until he couldn’t see Josephine without grinning. That’s when he knew.

  In other circumstances, she might have been his dearest friend.

  Their outings and games only magnified Elias’s affection, so he stopped participating in Josephine’s escapades. He maintained a suitable distance, for his father had warned him about scandal. One bout of misconduct, even a rumour, might cause Lord Welby to disinherit him. A Welby bastard needed to be above reproach. No drunkenness or debauchery.

  No relations with a cousin’s fiancée.

  Elias would not let his emotions outwit him. Why should he risk his station when the future seemed certain? Josephine would marry Sebastian and become lady of the manor. She would forget him, and no amount of pining could prompt a different fate.

  He must sever the friendship between them. Any communication—small talk, a glance at dinner—stoked the embers burning in his chest. He was fond to the point of being smitten. He was devoted until he was hers, completely.

  The attachment frustrated him, for no amount of distance seemed to break it. He observed from an upstairs window as Josephine played cricket with Sebastian. He cracked open his door when she and Kitty raced down the hallway in their nightgowns, their arms filled with chocolate.

  Distance was not enough. In seclusion he thought about Josephine, though he tried to distract himself with books and letters. Even his dreams swept him back to the bonfire party, where he kissed her again and again. He imagined that night until it drove him mad. Of course, love seemed too strong a word to use on a stranger. Love seemed foolish to waste on a kiss.

  But that depended on the kiss.

  It all sounded ridiculous to Elias. He could not love Josephine. Their few interactions constituted nothing more than amiable respect. And yet Elias was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He did not love her. He was only infatuated. For certain his intense feelings would dim with time. He just needed to avoid Josephine until then.

  October brought storms and contained the Darlings indoors. However, mist and mire could not stall Josephine’s plans. She pranced across the moors until rain soaked her clothes. She created bouquets of heather and scattered them throughout the house. Was her constant motion intended to keep sorrow at bay? Did she laugh to conceal her pain?

  Hope for unhappiness seemed cruel, so Elias retreated further into seclusion. Each morning, he parted his bedroom curtains and watched Josephine climb the south ridge to witness the sunrise. During meals he ignored her attempts at conversation. His rudeness would deter her attention, surely. His loneliness would suffocate all feelings eventually.

  But isolation did not fade his emotions. Rather, it caused them to blossom like prickly thistles. He adored the girl for who she was, not who she was to him. Oh, why couldn’t he recall a time before Josephine? And what life existed after her?

  The dining room quivered when its door flew open with a bang. Josephine, Kitty, and Miss Karel stumbled across the threshold in a whirlwind of giggles and ribbons. They clung to each other, dishevelled, breathless, tethered by laughter.

  Elias dropped his toast. He straightened as the girls waltzed forward, their murmurs suggesting jokes and secrets. How did they appear so vibrant this early? And in their untidy state? Did ladies receive awards for such accomplishments?

  “Good morning, Mr. Welby.” Josephine patted her flushed cheeks, then lowered herself into the chair across from him. She glanced at Sebastian, who seemed too preoccupied with his newspaper to acknowledge her presence. “Kitty, Miss Karel, and I plan to go on a picnic—”

  “We intend to weave flower crowns,” Kitty said. She plopped into a seat and grabbed a ginger bun from the breakfast nosh. Although younger than both her governess and future sister-in-law, she appeared the most dressed, her cotton muslin gown starched and pressed, her curls fastened on top her scalp with silver pins. Of course her mother had taught her well.

  No member of the Darling Family would dare traipse about unkempt.

  “Mr. Welby, would you care to join us?” Josephine filled her cup with tea. She plucked a honey cake from a tray, then looked at Elias, her smile widening. “Oh, please say yes.”

  “Josephine grows tired of my company,” Sebastian said while flipping through The Morning Post. He lounged at the table’s head like a royal, his cheeks stuffed with brioche. “Go with them, Elias. You need the fresh air.”

  “I best stay indoors and focus on my lessons.” Elias tugged his cravat. He squirmed as Josephine’s smile melted in disappointment. Did she mean to torture him with kindness? If she knew the extent of his attachment, how he battled himself to remain distant, how he clenched his fists whenever she laughed, perhaps she would have mercy and leave him alone.

  Sebastian lowered his newspaper. “Your lessons? Nonsense.”

  “My teapot needs me,” Elias said.

  “Blazes, another excuse. Admit you intend to hide in your library.” Sebastian scoffed and hoisted the papers into full spread. “Elias must hate women.”

  “Is that true?” Kitty spun toward him. She perched on her knees, a position which would have infuriated Mrs. Darling were she not away with her husband and Widow De Clare on a trip to town.

  “No, Kitty. I like girls,” Elias said.

  “Prove it!” Sebastian crumbled The Morning Post and threw it across the room, his movement yielding aromas of ale and sweat, souvenirs from his night at the local pub.

  “Stop teasing your cousin, Darling. He may do whatever he pleases.” Josephine stirred cream into her tea and locked gazes with Elias. “Mr. Welby, I admire your dedication to literature. I think if I could live in your thoughts . . . your mind w
ould seem a cosy place.”

  “More like a boring place,” Sebastian grumbled.

  “Never underestimate the artistry of human thought,” Josephine said. Her dark hair draped her shoulders, loose and uncurled. Her attire included a handmade dress the colour of her eyes, which she wore daily. For all her extravagant qualities were equal simplicities, and she seemed more spectacular because of them.

  “Please excuse me. I must greet our new kitchen staff.” Elias stood and bowed his head, a prickly ache ballooning within him. He should travel somewhere distant, perhaps London. His uncle would not protest. Besides, he needed only to separate himself until the spring, when Sebastian would marry Josephine at the estate’s chapel.

  “Do let me know if you change your mind,” Josephine said when Elias neared her chair. She lifted her chin, the curves of her neck an invitation. “You’re always welcome.”

  “I won’t change my mind.” Elias flexed his fingers, battling the urge to lean down and kiss her lips. What a wicked doing, to greet her warmth with coldness.

  But he needed to protect himself from all possible hope.

  Elias left the dining room and rushed down the hall. His brusque exit seemed merited, for a cook planned to arrive before noon. The Darlings’ previous employee had taken leave due to illness, forcing the family to hire a replacement. Fortunately, Elias knew a woman with impeccable culinary skills who desired to escape Lady Welby.