Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  My mind seems a hot mess, Faith. I can’t stop thinking about Elias and Josephine. More so, I can’t rid myself of the notion—which I cannot explain—that somehow Elias wrote about me. He knew I like to read upside down. He knew about my night-time chocolate habit. Sure, the matching name and description were a coincidence—the cute serendipity we all crave. But this?

  Elias understood what hurt me, and he experienced the same pains. He knew about Mum and Dad, and that I talk too much, especially when I’m nervous. All the things I dislike about myself were the things he loved about Josephine. That must be why I feel the way I do.

  I love that Elias fell for a girl like me.

  Cadwallader enhances this feeling—this sense I’m close to Elias. I can’t enter a room without expecting to see him, hence my desire to work in town. I cannot be alone without daydreaming about his letters, his story, what he sounded like. My imagination gets the better of me. Wishful thinking, perhaps. I do want someone to love me like Elias loved Josephine.

  The deeper I go into his world, the harder it is to find my way out.

  All this will make sense eventually. I’ll continue to renovate Cadwallader and search for information about Elias. If I learn about him, maybe I’ll find out whether Josephine was real.

  I need answers.

  Josie

  P.S. Arthur Banes died at Cadwallader. His corpse sat in the dining room for days. You know I like ghost stories, but this . . . I get chills just thinking about it.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Tuesday, July 5, 8:52 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: The Boy Next Door

  Faith, you enquired about the boy next door, so here’s an update . . .

  Oliver and I went to the variety store a few hours ago. He picked me up from the manor, that boyish grin—his trademark—plastered across his face. He looked ridiculous, dressed in sweatpants, trainers, and a baggy The Strokes T-shirt.

  I still can’t get over his hair. It’s a total mess, worse than my Kool-Aid dye job.

  We ventured into Atteberry. (Oliver drives Norman’s vintage motorcycle, which has a sidecar—a tin can of death.) After we bought stuff for his grandparents, we ate dinner at the pub. Bangers and mash with a side of chips, followed by sundaes. We’re health nuts for sure.

  Oliver is smarter than he appears. I mean, at first look he seems like an odd chap—the hipster jock sort who usually hangs out at the gyms in Kings Cross. You know the kind.

  He reads a lot, though. Suspense novels and cult classics are his preference, but he does enjoy the occasional literature anthology and medical textbook. Did I tell you he’s studying to be a doctor? Yeah, he wants to practice medicine in Atteberry once he graduates. He’s super close with his grandparents and wants to live near them. (I can’t figure the boy out. He’s a paradox.)

  A few days ago, I rode my bike to Norman and Martha’s cottage. (Norman said he’d attach a basket to the handlebars.) Oliver was out in the pasture when I arrived. He must’ve seen me coming down the drive, because he sprinted across the field and hurdled a stone wall.

  Somehow he crossed the barrier without injuring himself. The feat impressed him so much, he spent a half hour coaxing me to admit his trick was brill.

  Oh, he just texted. I’ll finish this update soon.

  Josie

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Wednesday, July 6, 2:14 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: The Boy Next Door

  Faith, I’m antsier than usual. I woke up in a panic this morning, and I don’t know why. Nothing has changed, at least not really. I haven’t talked to Mum in a while, so no stress there. Oliver and I are friends. His grandparents treat me like family. And renovations occupy my days.

  Between hiring a contractor to repair the east wing and overseeing an electrician, I barely have enough time to read in Elias’s study. I want to finish the construction project for Dad. I want to figure out what the heck is going on with the novel and letters and this attachment I have to Elias. The feelings grow stronger each day. I need to put his letters back in that drawer.

  I need to remind myself why I came to Cadwallader.

  The future will not wait for me to get my act together. In a few months, I’ll go back to London and resume my life. Elias can’t keep me in Atteberry, neither can missing Dad. I must focus. Please tell me to stop obsessing. It’s bad, Faith. Really bad. Each night, I read across from Elias’s portrait so I can pretend we’re two people at a library, separated by books. I wander the manor and imagine his story playing out. And the dreams—oh, I have vivid dreams about him.

  Oliver brought firewood (and a reality check) to the house this morning. He saw Elias’s letters piled on the kitchen table. Being the nosey goof that he is, he asked me about them. I can’t quite remember how the conversation went, but he ended up reading the opened letters and several chapters of Elias’s novel. I think we might’ve created a book club.

  The similarities between Josephine and me shocked Oliver. I haven’t seen him so excited. It was as though he’d uncovered a mystery, like I was Nancy Drew and he was a Hardy Boy. He then wanted to see Elias’s study, so I took him on a tour of the house.

  He investigated every nook and cranny.

  Afterward we visited the cottage and used Norman’s printer to scan Elias’s novel into a digital copy. Oliver plans to read it with me. That should help my sanity, right? I mean, treating the book like fiction should prevent me from thinking of it as a love letter to what might’ve been. Thanks for the care package by the way! I took one look at the My Heart Belongs to Elias Roch mug and laughed myself breathless.

  Surely I won’t fall in love with someone’s words if I’m not the only one reading them.

  Ugh!!! That’s how I feel. One big UGH.

  How’s your life? Any news about the one who won’t be named?

  Josie

  P.S. I’ve decided to study education at uni. I want to be a schoolteacher. Mum will throw a fit when I tell her. (She doesn’t think educators make enough money.) But the vocation seems a good fit for me. Even my dad thought I should teach.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Friday, July 8, 3:47 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Plot Twist

  Faith, I hope you’re sitting down. If you’re not, please find a chair. I’d hate for you to read this email and collapse. Perhaps I should begin with the least shocking news—I got the job at Sassenach Bakery! Good thing too. Not sure I could last another full day at Cadwallader.

  My hands won’t stop trembling, so I apologize if my words are jumbled. I considered waiting until the panic subsided, but . . . I must tell you what happened.

  This morning I resumed my scavenger hunt. A giant mistake. I should’ve gone outside and pressure-washed the front stoop, but mist hovered thick on the moors, and I didn’t want to suffer the cold. Instead, I looked for Elias’s studio. I went to the third floor and peered into each room. Someone had emptied a lot of the chambers, so I didn’t expect to find anything. However, I noticed a door beside the staircase. It blended into the panelling, its knob the only giveaway.

  Obviously, I opened the door.

  Grey light spilled into the room from a single window. Easels crowded the space, and paintings dotted the walls. I coughed. Dust clung to the air like smoke. No one had entered the studio in years, proven by the undisturbed layer of grime that coated the floorboards.

  I wandered among the artwork until I reached the fireplace. That’s when I saw it—the portrait of Josephine from Elias’s letter. It hung over the mantel, discoloured and smeared with soot.

  But its likeness was unmistakable.

>   My heart skipped a beat. I stumbled backward and knocked over a painting—a blonde girl in a white frock. The room seemed to shrink around me, narrowing into a tunnel with a face at one end, a door at the other. I couldn’t breathe, so I fled the studio.

  He painted me, Faith. It was me on his wall. How is any of this possible? How did a man from two hundred years ago know about me?

  And why do I have this feeling I’m supposed to know him too?

  Josie

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Friday, July 8, 6:22 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: Plot Twist

  Elias met a girl with my name and face. He wrote about her, and the character he created resembled me too. He wanted to post letters to her, but something happened.

  He never found her address.

  I can’t wrap my mind around this situation. Whenever I type Elias’s name into a search engine, nothing comes up. When I look for information about Josephine Emilia De Clare, I find only details about myself. The old Josephine doesn’t appear in any public databases.

  Our suspicions cannot be true. I refuse to believe Elias loved me, because I’m here and he’s not. Letting myself hope seems foolish. I mean, nobody rational expects to find their Mr. Darcy. As girls, we know what kind of love we’re allowed. Our men flock to the pubs and watch rugby with their mates, not write us letters filled with phrases like “I’m ardently yours.”

  Why search for Elias Roch in a world of Rashads?

  Josie

  * * *

  ELEVEN

  ELIAS

  July 4, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  I find myself in an impossible predicament, and no amount of civil behaviour can save me. Society will not rest until my station unravels. They come for the Roch fortune like hounds ready to devour all I have left. Besides the fact my wealth and title will not withstand their efforts, I fear Arthur’s death has weakened me. I cannot be prevailed upon to feel anything but fatigue.

  At present I write to you from my coach. A lantern swings from the ceiling, and damp air gusts between curtains. My driver shouts at the horses as we travel the moors at a reckless speed. Perhaps I should request a gentler pace, for the carriage rattles, and my penmanship suffers.

  Nothing could tempt my strength, not after tonight’s affairs. I accepted Lady Seymore’s invitation and spent the evening at Bletchley Place. The visit began without incident. Lady Seymore introduced me to her guests, all of whom embraced my presence with conversation.

  Dinner included fifteen dishes, my favourites being the white soup and stuffed partridges. Lady Seymore gave all guests a tour of the main floor prior to the meal. She talked about her late husband’s fascination with French design, hence the abundance of Parisian furnishings. She led us into chambers with satin wallpaper and gilded fireplaces. Really, if I had known what awaited me in the dining room, I would have attempted to prolong the jaunt.

  As luck would have it, I ended up at the farthest corner of the table, seated across from a clergyman. Lady Seymore’s mother sat to my right, her age encouraging bouts of slumber.

  I might have enjoyed the companionship if not for Admiral Gipson’s arrival.

  He joined the party as footmen served beef and mutton. His presence, more so his navy uniform, demanded attention. Everyone paused conversation to inspect his decorated blazer.

  The admiral kissed Lady Seymore’s wrist and apologized for his tardiness. He sat in the chair to my left, his clothes reeking of tobacco and Bay Rum. Without looking at me, he said, “I read in the paper about your friend’s accident. My condolences.”

  I nearly spilled my drink at his impertinent unwillingness to introduce himself to me before conversing. The remainder of the evening confirmed his refusal to acknowledge me as Lord Roch.

  Admiral Gipson straightened his ornaments, perhaps to flaunt his proficiencies. He enquired as to whether I planned to occupy my family home in Durham. I told him I preferred Cadwallader Manor, and he said, “You had good sense to move into that place. Indeed, a bastard does not merit the right to manage a prominent estate. Perhaps you should relinquish—”

  Lady Seymore interrupted with a question about news from town, thus diverting the dialogue to matters of gossip and entertainment.

  It was just as well. Shock rendered me speechless. I did not finish my dinner, rather I stared at the table’s centrepiece like a fool. Admiral Gipson desired me to spurn my inheritance, but why? What could he gain from my rejected title? And who would dare strip me of it?

  The festivities ended an hour later when Lady Seymore’s mother fell asleep in the drawing room and shattered a bottle of ratafia. Guests used the accident as a reason for their departure and escaped the clergyman before he read his sermons.

  Why did Admiral Gipson bother to attend the party? He lives in Dorset, a two-week’s ride from Atteberry, unless he is staying nearby.

  Josephine, I feel the truth, but to give it words is to breathe life into it. Regardless of how I wish to perceive intentions, Admiral Gipson’s motives appeared quite clear. He came to Atteberry for reasons involving me.

  Father bequeathed his heir ten thousand pounds per year, money derived from the Roch aristocratic lineage and success in trade. The sum puts a target on my back.

  I am not afflicted with false modesty, so believe me when I say I am unable to endure another tribulation. My vigour fades like a covered flame, shrinking from gold to muted blue. If relatives come to brawl for my fortune, I may very well give it to them.

  Lorelai went to stay with Mary Rose for several weeks, claiming my house reminded her too much of Arthur. She promised to return by August, but I think she may venture south instead, perhaps to visit Mr. O’Connor in London. Cadwallader does not seem a kind place, especially now. I expect to see Arthur whenever I enter the dining room. I sit in silence, waiting for his music to echo up the stairwell. Each day without him drives me closer to madness. Lorelai must sense that darkness too. She would do well to leave Atteberry.

  Without her presence, I can barely tolerate the house. I paint alone. I eat alone. I go downstairs to the servants’ quarters and play cards with Mrs. Dunstable so I won’t die from boredom. Even reading and writing seem more solitary than before.

  The carriage slows, which means we’re nearing Cadwallader. I best conclude this letter before my driver finds me crouched on the floorboard, surrounded by stationery.

  Elias

  P.S. I am inclined to saddle Willoughby and ride to where I met you. Of course, you will not be there, but I must do something. I have spent months in pursuit of your address. I have written to people all over England, and no one seems to know your whereabouts or if you exist.

  July 19, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  A messenger called this morning. He brought a letter from the town courthouse.

  One glance at the wax insignia confirmed my suspicions. I tore open the letter and removed a summons. Apparently my cousin Thomas Roch has contested Father’s will, alleging I forced Lord Roch to sign the document and thus committed fraud. He also claimed Lady Roch did not sign as a witness, which poses another reason to nullify the terms. Now, according to common law, I must hire a solicitor and appear before a judge.

  Surely Admiral Gipson encouraged my cousin to pursue legal action, perhaps for a portion of the inheritance. I assume they believe a court will rule in their favour due to my illegitimate birth. If they secure the right judge, their notions may prove correct.

  My cousin believes himself the rightful heir to the Roch fortune. Pray tell, should I concede before the trouble begins? I could leave Cadwallader once and for all, maybe purchase a cottage near the coast. I like the sea, and a change of scenery may put the past behind me.

  No, I cannot yield. Admiral Gipson and Thomas Roch declared war against my honour, so I must fight for what is mine. I will no
t be snuffed out.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  P.S. I completed the fourth chapter of my novel.

  July 23, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  Yesterday I rode Willoughby into town and met with a solicitor whom Lady Seymore recommended. He promised to hire a top-notch barrister to vouch for me. Still, with two months until the first hearing, I seem to have no advantage. The circuit court plays favourites.

  I am hardly anyone’s favourite.

  Mother feared this day might come. She took me aside one Christmas morning when I was six years of age. I do not know what prompted her concern, but she said, “When you’re older, somebody may try to steal from you—to hurt you—because Lord Roch wants to give you a good life. Promise you’ll treat them with kindness, for the moment you strip someone of their humanity is the moment you lose your own.”

  She encouraged me to live beyond reproach despite our circumstance. I tell a happier story in my book, but reality was not so gentle. Mother and I suffered, and through it all she forgave and clung to faith. Her words echo within me now as I prepare for the trials to come.