Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  Admiral Gipson and Thomas Roch believe the case a sure win. However, I am not without connections. I’ll write to my father’s lawyers and request their legal advice. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll manage to gather enough proof to support my claim.

  In other news, Lorelai returns tomorrow. Her letters say Mary Rose lifted her spirits, and she plans to travel home in a fortnight. I’ve yet to tell her about the court case, though. She tends to stick around when there’s trouble.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  July 26, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  Lorelai returned to Cadwallader. Upon arrival, she rushed to my study and entered without a knock or greeting. I suspect Mrs. Dunstable informed her about the case, for she gazed at me with tears in her eyes, her lips pinched into a scowl. She fussed at me for not sending word. Then she enquired about my health and what needed to be done.

  Nothing I said pacified her. She rolled up her sleeves and went to work, sorting through documents, ordering the staff to open windows and bring in flowers. She claimed the manor was too dark and musty, so she asked Mrs. Dunstable to purchase new curtains and lamps.

  I suppose Lorelai does care about me.

  The news spread through Atteberry. Again, I blame Mrs. Dunstable. Locals visited the house to pay their respects. I did not think people noticed my residence at the estate, but they brought food and wished me well. Some of the farmers even gathered to say a prayer. Indeed, they are so good-natured. I cannot imagine what I did to earn their regard.

  Lorelai asserts I need to better receive affection. She cornered me yesterday and said I was foolish to assume myself negligible. Our friendship has mended. We paint in the evenings and visit Arthur’s grave. Not once has Lorelai mentioned what occurred at the ball. Instead, she wishes to know about you, how we met, and if I plan to declare intentions.

  She insists I contact the directory in Bath. Apparently lots of young ladies go there during the social season for its assembly rooms. Lorelai believes you may reside in the city until September and wants me to make inquiries. My unsent letters seem to fascinate her, so much so that she advises me what to write. Now we both hope to find you, Josephine.

  Without Arthur here, Lorelai spends a great deal of time with me. She doesn’t appear bothered by possible rumours. During our last conversation, she mentioned her scheme to visit London prior to her return home, for Mr. O’Connor has expressed interest in courtship. She anticipates a marriage proposal.

  At present I write to you from the gorse alcove. I sprawl on a patchwork quilt of leaves and scribble without disruption. The shrubs are in bloom, their blossoms a bright yellow and smelling of tropical fruit. How could I feel despondent in such a place?

  Nature heals like a ginger tonic. It fixes the parts of me no physician can see.

  My thoughts seem changed now. Since infancy I have endeavoured to be worthy of the inheritance. I allowed other people to determine what I wanted and how I lived. Then Father died, and the money was placed in my hands. I hated it, truly, for the wealth did not give me satisfaction. It failed to confirm Father’s affection or to transform me into someone I admired.

  The court case has presented an opportunity for me to wipe the slate clean. I could rid myself of the Roch title, cast aside expectations, and start anew. However, these past few days proved I am not my father. I decide the path set before me, and so I shall face Thomas Roch and Admiral Gipson. I shall not relent, for this fight belongs to me. It is mine to win.

  My future is not contingent on the whims of others. I want a real home and family, and I believe such things attainable. Of course, one’s belief cannot be allowed to suffocate under the tyranny of small minds, for hope itself does not hinge on the faith of the masses, rather the singular soul.

  And I hope most ardently.

  Lorelai begs me to write my feelings with directness, for she knows I have withheld a certain sentiment from these letters. Although I risk offense, I wish you to know my intentions and the emotions that compel my pursuit. I love you, Josephine.

  I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you.

  After I learn your address and this legal matter ends, I would like to solicit an audience with you and suggest a courtship. Our separation has confirmed that my attachment is more than mere infatuation. I miss you. Each letter I write reminds me of your distance. I need a day with you, then another. I need an infinite amount of last days with you because none of them, no matter what we do, will be good enough to encapsulate how much I love you.

  Please do me the honour of considering my request. I shall not surrender hope until I know whether you share my affection. For a moment with you, I wait an eternity.

  Yours ever,

  Elias Roch

  August 13, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  The court date approaches like the storms that spool black over the moorland ridges and progress in a slow creep. I cannot escape its looming presence. Mrs. Dunstable marked every calendar in the house to encourage communal support and insists the cook serve my favourite soup to, as she lovingly puts it, improve my wounded morale. She and Lorelai do their best to calm my nerves, but they hover like anxious parents, always checking on me, asking if I need more tea and firewood. Yes, I appreciate their efforts, but I would not mind less attention. They watch as if I am dying but they cannot bear to tell me.

  Lorelai refuses to leave Cadwallader until after the trial. Every morning, she comes to my study and helps sort through the documents Father’s lawyers posted to me. She thinks I shall gather enough proof to support my case. I want to share her enthusiasm, but just last week I rode to Newcastle and met with my barrister, and he seemed uneasy.

  Thomas Roch’s claims revolve around hearsay. No one can prove fraud, and the will includes signatures from two witnesses. However, if my cousin finds a judge who dislikes bastards, I stand no chance. The nature of my birth seems a great offense.

  In a month’s time, I shall enter the courthouse and plead my case. I cannot determine what happens to me. I can only control how I respond to it.

  Josephine, I shall write to you again soon. My solicitor and barrister wish to meet with me, so I return to Newcastle tomorrow. Pray they bear good news.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  P.S. I wrote to the directory a fortnight ago. A lady by the name of Miss Catherine Wood responded and said a Josephine De Clare was reported at 11 Great Pulteney Street.

  September 23, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  I went to court today, and not a thing went right. I stood in a whirlpool of angry voices, the room tight and reeking of bodies and urine. Some poor bloke soaked his trousers, and I understand why. Barristers waved their fingers while a judge perched above me. They posed questions until the air seemed to evaporate. I could not breathe. I still cannot breathe.

  The assembly reconvenes tomorrow, but I fear I am ruined. Thomas Roch will inherit Father’s assets. He must loathe me, for at the hearing he refused to acknowledge my presence. Yes, blood is thicker than water, but what is thicker than money?

  Without a farthing to my name, I cannot purchase that seaside cottage or make you a suitable offer of marriage. I shall be fortunate if I secure a position

  TWELVE

  THE NOVEL

  Sebastian marched across the entrance hall with a rifle propped against his shoulder. “Look alive, Elias,” he said while smacking his cousin with leather gloves. Like all Darling men, he relished the wee hours of morning, especially when hounds barked outside.

  “Must we leave so early?” Elias squirmed in buckskin breeches, a garment lent to him for the occasion. He rubbed grit from his eyes and followed Sebastian to the vestibule.

  Cadwallader Park seemed to buzz with activity as its staff prepared for the hunt. Mrs. Capers’s clattering echoed from the kitchens on the lower level. The valet polished shotguns while the maid beetled from room to room with breakfast trays.

  “I daresa
y you care more about sleep than entertainment,” Sebastian said.

  “Sleep is my entertainment.” Elias smirked, his stomach grumbling for more breakfast. He accepted a thick wool coat from the butler and buttoned it over his jacket.

  “Promise you won’t be dull. If you complain, I’ll make you sack the grouse.” Sebastian grabbed Elias’s shoulder and dragged him onto the front stoop. Their breaths whirled like smoke as they beheld the landscape’s blue haze, its gossamer webs that glistened with dew. Even the fog seemed hesitant to rise for the day.

  Elias shivered and pocketed his hands. He shouldn’t put himself in this situation. Anne and Mrs. Capers had warned him not to flaunt his new friendship. They’d recommended he fake illness to avoid the hunt—advice he’d considered until Sebastian barged into his bedchamber an hour ago. Somehow he’d ended up in riding clothes, his belly half full of porridge.

  “Best get a move on,” Sebastian said. “Don’t want you to catch a chill.”

  The estate appeared frozen, its topiary garden crystalized by frost, its outbuildings iced like gingerbread. Five horses waited on the lawn. Their hooves created U’s in the verglas as Mr. Darling wove among them, attempting to quiet his pack of hounds. He blew into a whistle. He shouted obscenities, which startled the onlooking women more than his dogs.

  “Gracious. Any earlier and I would’ve come in my night shift.” Josephine entered the cold, wearing only her slate-blue dress and boots, her unbrushed hair baled with a ribbon.

  “Ah, my lovely fiancée. You look . . . fit for the outdoors,” Sebastian said. He snatched Josephine’s hand from her side and pecked her knuckles, perhaps to appease his mother and future mother-in-law. The women seemed to watch him like hawks.

  Elias smiled, his face warming against the wind. “Did you finish the book?” he asked Josephine once Sebastian joined Mr. Darling on the lawn.

  “Yes. I read until midnight, but then I was too afraid to sleep. What marvellous fiction. You must lend me another novel, perhaps one with more ghosts. The last didn’t have nearly enough.” Josephine beamed at him. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, its tip caressing her rouge-smeared cheekbone. “How did Sebastian entrap you in his plans?”

  “I owed him a favour.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m not sure. He claims I owe him a great deal.” Elias laughed and stepped into the manor’s doorway. “Perhaps I’ll sneak inside—”

  “No, no, you must come.” Josephine gripped his sleeve, her thumb grazing his bare wrist. She drew back. Her cheeks flushed. “I won’t press you, though. If you decide not to join us, I’ll tell Sebastian you’re unwell. At least one of us should be able to escape this madness.”

  Without another word, she hurried toward the hunting party.

  Elias sighed and rubbed the spot her fingers had touched. Every thud of his heart seemed unrequited, but he couldn’t walk away. He couldn’t preserve himself. He needed to stand close to her, for the sight of something wonderful—like a first snowfall or Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens—seemed better than nothing at all.

  Ice crunched beneath his boots as he strode across the front lawn. He waded through Mr. Darling’s pack of dogs, their coats smearing mud across his breeches.

  “Are you warm enough, Elias?” Mrs. Darling asked. She and Widow De Clare observed from a distance, both swaddled by cloaks and shawls.

  “Satisfactory,” he said. His teeth chattered from the bitter wind. His cheeks grew numb. Still, he dare not ask for more clothes and subject himself to Sebastian’s mockery.

  “You’re the responsible one, Nephew. I trust you’ll guard my boys from misadventure.” Mrs. Darling mustered an affectionate smile. She pivoted toward the main house and glared at Fitz, who peered from his nursery window. Poor lad—the hounds must’ve woken him.

  “I shall do my best,” Elias said. He reached his steed and adjusted its stirrups. His legs required ample slack, more than the stableman gave him.

  “Josephine, you look indecent. Did you not consider your attire?” Widow De Clare yelled. “No one of importance will attend your wedding if you damage your reputation.”

  “I disagree, Mama,” Josephine shouted in response. She grabbed her horse’s reins and snickered. “Scandal engenders popularity. A woman of little propriety may not receive the public’s respect, but she will gain their attendance.”

  Widow De Clare scowled, her jaw set. She removed her cloak—a wool tartan—and motioned for her daughter to take it. “At least wear my shawl.”

  Josephine crossed the lawn, her boots creating divots in the frost. She draped Widow De Clare’s garment over her shoulders, then returned to her stallion, where Mr. Darling lectured on rifles and game. He must’ve told a joke, for she tilted back her head and laughed at the grey sky.

  “Do keep an eye on her, Elias. I expect she’ll fall behind once the hunt begins,” Sebastian whispered as he tightened his saddle’s girth. He glanced at Josephine and huffed. “Oh, just look at her. She cannot manage proper dress, let alone behave with the faintest intrigue.”

  “You still don’t like Miss De Clare?” Elias grew stiff, his fingers still clasped around a stirrup’s buckle. He knew Sebastian did not care for Josephine, but the churlishness ignited hope within him. Perhaps his cousin would end the engagement.

  “I know dozens of more accomplished, better-suited ladies.” Sebastian slid his hands into leather gloves, then swiped an auburn curl from his forehead. “My parents wish me to settle down so I won’t cause further damage to the family name. They arranged a marriage to the first girl that came to mind. You and me . . . I suppose we’re not so different. We both live at the mercy of our parents, and we fear reputation because of what it may cost us.”

  “The hounds are restless,” Mr. Darling yelled as dogs nipped his thighs. He fought through the pack and blew his whistle, signalling for everyone to mount their horses.

  “Reputations take only what we give them,” Elias whispered. He wedged his foot in a stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. “For approval, we gamble ourselves away.”

  “And yet we do it happily,” Sebastian said with a chuckle. “Come on, Elias. Don’t be dreary. You must admit my fiancée demonstrates vulgarity of manners.”

  “You consider yourself a worthy judge?” Elias snorted.

  “Of good manners? Hardly.” Sebastian grinned and mounted his steed. “But as someone versed in the art of indelicate behaviour, I consider myself an expert on all matters vulgar. Josephine De Clare does not merit a high score from my judging, and I swore to marry either a true lady—the type who sits indoors all day—or a sterling imp.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Sebastian tipped his top hat. “Oh, how I dream of wedding an imp.” With a laugh, he kicked his heels and lurched into motion, leading the party in a charge across Cadwallader.

  Hooves slung frozen sod. Dogs yipped and yapped as they raced toward the hills, their ears flapping like wings. It all seemed regal—skylarks flitting from their heaths, air drenched with the metallic scent of rain—as if the northern land bore English pride.

  Elias hovered above his seat, the worn leather rocking between his legs. He clutched the horse’s reins and leaned forward to let the wind roll down his back. Since childhood, he’d exercised his riding to please Lord Welby. He’d galloped around Windermere Hall, jumped hedges and gates. Such practice gifted him with exceptional balance. Granted, he couldn’t rely too much on his proficiencies, not when the world blurred around him.

  Regardless of skill and caution, one blunder could result in a bashed skull.

  Mr. Darling veered onto a path while his dogs traversed the moorland brush. “A good day for sport,” he yelled. “I predict a generous yield—”

  “I daresay my gun agrees with you.” Sebastian fired a shot at the clouds. He glanced over his shoulder and laughed at the valet, who bounced in his saddle. “Did you forget how to ride?”

  “You shall make yourself sick if you
don’t change stance,” Mr. Darling added.

  “I already did, sir,” the valet said, his complexion tinted green. He leaned off the cantle and braced his knees against the horse’s sides. His adjustments must’ve satisfied the masters, for they raced on, slicing through mud, chasing invisible game.

  Elias fell behind when the party ascended a hillside. He matched pace with Josephine and steered his horse up the grassy slope.

  “What is it we’re hunting?” Josephine asked. She rode side-saddle, her mother’s tartan wrapped around her neck like a cowl, her dark hair a billowing pennant.

  “Birds, I think,” Elias said.

  “On horseback? With hounds?”

  “Perhaps foxes, then.”

  Josephine laughed. “The Darlings are the worst countrymen I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t be surprised if they opened fire on a herd of sheep.”

  “Give them a keg of ale, and I assure you anything’s possible.” Elias smiled. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall a time when the Darlings brought home more than a single bag of grouse. His relatives must’ve used the sport as an excuse to gallivant across the county.

  “Hmm, today just became interesting,” Josephine said with a shimmer in her eyes. She kicked her heels and galloped onto a ridge, her skirt bunching to reveal a petticoat and blue-threaded stockings. She was not vulgar. No, she possessed a raw elegance, like the heather scattered across the kitchen sideboard.

  Elias rode at her side, moving toward silhouettes now obscured by fog. He lifted his face into the cold and listened for barks. He swayed with the horse’s movements, relaxing as wind combed through his curls. What if he endeavoured to prevent the wedding? Sebastian did not wish to marry Josephine, nor she him. Elias could end the ordeal with a few planned remarks. Already the words entered his mind like nightshade, poisoning him with dark possibilities.