Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  His manuscript ended after the fourth chapter. Oliver contacted a friend at the University of Edinburgh who may be able to locate the full story. We haven’t heard back yet, but we’re on a mission to find the book. Elias wouldn’t have left it unfinished. He would’ve brought his character and Josephine together, given them a happy ending.

  I need to read the whole manuscript.

  Do you remember when I threw up on Dr. Kleinman? I pretended to have the flu so I could dodge classes. The embarrassment was too much, worse than when I accidentally flashed my knickers at the school recital. I didn’t want to show my face anywhere.

  Not talking to you wasn’t because of you, Faith. I’m sorry for repeating my mistakes and hurting you all over again. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I can’t seem to avoid messes, dysfunction, or spreading pain. Elias’s Josephine was different in that respect. She chose joy and made people see the best in themselves. Not me. I feel dark like Elias.

  Maybe books do reflect the better versions of us.

  I was embarrassed to tell you the truth—that I’m attached to someone who no longer exists. I was embarrassed to admit I’m losing all sense. Like, how could I expect anyone to understand? I don’t even understand. I just feel what I feel, and my feelings say Elias wrote to me. Perhaps I’m wrong. (The logical part of my brain knows I’m mistaken.) But I can’t walk away. My feet seem glued to Atteberry and Cadwallader Manor.

  This place supplements all the missing elements of my life. I started work at Sassenach Bakery as a cashier and novice baker. (The pâtissier doesn’t trust me with complicated recipes, so I make scones and biscuits.) I fancy the job, more so the shop. It’s located in the centre of town, has blue windowpanes and a Tudor rose insignia. Quite a lovely place. It smells like fresh bread and coffee, and the owner insists we play singer-songwriter music.

  On Wednesdays an elderly woman with pink hair, Lucille, comes to purchase snacks for her knitting club. She wears round glasses and a camouflage parka. Last week I complimented her outfit, and she invited me to visit her group. I’ve yet to give her an answer.

  All that to say, I have a life here. I’m part of the community now. People know my name. They pop into the bakery and say hello. (Some of them remember Dad.) On the weekends, Oliver and his grandparents come over for afternoon tea.

  They invite me to eat dinner with them at least twice a week. You deserve to be mad at me. I’m mad at myself, not just for my behaviour this past week, but for how I cut you out of my life when Dad got sick. I’ll always regret that. You should’ve been at hospital. You should’ve heard about his passing before everyone else.

  Since his death, I’ve felt a bit detached from the world. Living here changes that, connects me to Dad and Elias, lets me feel like I belong somewhere again. I’ve grown used to being alone at Cadwallader. Right now I’m inside the west wing study, nestled on a velvet sofa. Nan lies at my feet, twitching from a dream. Elias watches us from the wall.

  And I am perfectly content.

  Please keep an open mind for this next part. I won’t go into detail. I’ll just type my bigger news and press Send so I won’t persuade myself otherwise.

  I decided to stay in Atteberry until Christmas.

  Josie

  P.S. I’m happy to hear about your mended relationship with Noah!

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Tuesday, July 25, 5:06 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Life Updates from Cadwallader

  Hi, Faith! Just checking in to see how you’re doing. Are your summer classes treating you well? Any news in the Noah department?

  Our last conversation ended poorly, and I hate when we’re on bad terms. I’m usually to blame. (I have a Hulk-sized destructive vein.) We’ll be okay, right? I mean, we survived the Bra Debacle of 2017, among other things. I’m confident we can get through this rough patch.

  Some updates: The electrician finished wiring the upstairs floors, so Cadwallader has electricity. Workers came and patched the roof. No more leaks!

  Mum phoned yesterday. She has a new boyfriend—a bloke half her age. They met at a charity auction in Brighton. I forgot his name, but it’s something horrible like Ernie or Thad.

  Blimey, I hope I don’t end up with a Stepdaddy Thad.

  In other news, July brought warmer weather to Atteberry. I ride my bike into town and wear those jumpsuits you gave me, except when I help Oliver with farm chores. (Martha lent me overalls and Wellingtons because I step in sheep dung at least once a week.) Nan stays with me at night. She sleeps at the foot of my bed and snores louder than the manor’s creepy noises.

  How can I convince you I’m all right? Remember when I first asked why you left America? You told me sometimes it takes letting go of everything to get something worth having. You detached from your world, and look at what happened.

  Elias understood misery better than he realized. That or he just knew how to write about it. His letters prove he wanted someone to guide him through grief, but loss isn’t a textbook process. It’s different for everyone. Yeah, we want advice and steps—anything to shorten the pain. But grief can’t be hurried or pummelled with self-help. It’s just there.

  The only way out of it is through it.

  I’m getting through my grief, Faith. So what if I need a manuscript and love letters? People have found solace in literature for centuries. I’m no different. I mean, a book is but a stack of paper until someone reads it. And when someone reads it, they build a house within its pages, so whenever they return to that book, they feel right at home.

  Let me have this home.

  Josie

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Wednesday, August 9, 11:09 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: Life Updates from Cadwallader

  Faith, rest assured I’ve taken steps to mend my imagination.

  Last night I dreamt I climbed out of bed and wandered into the hallway, where Elias waited for me. He smiled and whispered my name, his tall form traced with candlelight. I collided with his chest. I embraced him while he combed his fingers through my hair and kissed a line across my forehead. For what seemed like hours, we held each other. Then, I woke up in an empty room with his scent—a blend of fresh wood and ozone—on my pyjamas. Even now I remember his warmth, the feeling of his lips against my brow.

  The dream frightened me, so much so that I decided to visit Lucille’s knitting club. Human interaction seemed a cure for such things.

  Lucille’s club meets at the Knitting Emporium on Glebe Street. They gather in a back room filled with inventory, sip tea, and gossip. They’re a pleasant bunch, hardly the old folk I expected. Members include Lucille, Dorrit, Clare, Margery, and Stuart.

  Dorrit immigrated from the Scottish Highlands. She speaks with a thick accent. Really, I don’t think anyone understands her, but they all play along. Margery doesn’t look older than forty. She wears colourful bandannas and pins back her curls with knitting needles. Stuart is Lucille’s younger brother. He’s retired, but he volunteers at the local radio station. And I can’t forget Clare—the eldest of the group. She’s charming, truly a precious lady. Her parents died in the Blitz when she was five years old.

  I went to the club after work. (My boss insisted I stay late to bake tarts.) A bell chimed when I entered the emporium. Lucille rushed to greet me, her wardrobe more eclectic than usual. She wore a furry jumper, lilac trousers, and bedazzled trainers.

  Social media would fall in love with her.

  Once I purchased red yarn and a pair of needles, Lucille walked me to the back room, where everyone sat in a circle. They introduced themselves, then asked what brought me to Atteberry. I told them about Dad, the estate, Mum’s new boyfriend. Perhaps I should’ve withheld my personal woes, but they didn’t
seem to mind. They rose from their seats and surrounded me in a group hug. Not a pity hug. A sincere welcome. And for a moment I felt at home, like they wanted me to be a part of their mismatched family.

  Stuart placed a foldout chair between Clare and Dorrit. I joined the circle and wound my yarn into a ball while Margery joked about her ex-husband. Clare taught me basic knitting stitches. (I may finish a scarf by Christmas.) Lucille gave an overview of the last romance novel she read and explained how to make the perfect steak-and-kidney pie.

  The club meeting steadied me. I plan to go back next week. Yes, Cadwallader Manor still creaks and groans, but I feel better. Elias may sneak into my dreams. (I almost want him to find me in that hallway.) But who cares if I fancy a dead author? I have Oliver, Norman and Martha, a job, the knitting club, and I have Elias.

  My existence seems rather balanced now.

  Josie

  P.S. Please talk to me!! I’ve had a taste of my own medicine, and it’s bitter.

  * * *

  FOURTEEN

  ELIAS

  September 24, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  I write to you from a corner table within Atteberry’s public house. Night dims the bustle to smouldering conversations. Patrons bask in the amber glow from oil lamps while imbibing both ale and poor company. At this late hour, no one bothers to approach me, which seems a comfort after such a horrid day. I wish to write and sip my tea in absolute peace.

  Please forgive the abrupt end to my previous letter. Mrs. Dunstable barged into my study while I wrote to you, her intrusion forcing me to stuff the papers into a drawer. I am not ashamed of my attachment to you. However, my housekeeper seems keen on me finding a wife. She demands her participation and introduces me to every young lady in her acquaintance. Although I value her opinion, I wish to avoid further involvement.

  The court reconvened this morning and debated for hours. Barristers argued. Thomas Roch yelled accusations. Admiral Gipson watched from the audience, smirking as though my opposition has already won the case. His expression taunted me. It resembled the arrogance of my headmaster at Eton, the gentlefolk who called me a “leeching bastard,” and Father on multiple occasions.

  All my life, someone has looked at me the way Admiral Gipson did today. I am done with it—the whispers and sneers, being treated as a pawn. Indeed, in that moment the need for an end swelled within me until I could’ve burst from it. I washed my hands of the silence.

  I wanted to fight.

  My barrister addressed the magistrate and pleaded my case. His words echoed through the room, muted by the audience’s murmurs. I could not bear to let another person speak on my behalf, so I cleared my throat and stood. My sudden willingness to address the court caused surprise, for everyone grew quiet. Even the admiral leaned forward in his chair.

  The judge motioned for me to speak.

  I said, “Your Worship, I refute the accusations made against me, for they were issued by an avaricious relative with whom I first made acquaintance in this very room. Mr. Thomas Roch did not attend family gatherings, nor did he offer his condolences after my father’s passing. In fact, I was unaware of the man’s existence until I received a court summons. He wishes to profit from my father—his distant uncle—by charging a bastard heir with fraud.

  “Regarding the disputed matter of illegitimacy, I am a Roch, the only son of Lord William Catesby Roch. I was born in Durham and have resided in Atteberry for almost a year. My cousin wishes you to believe me the uneducated child of an improper union. With little civility, he attempts to slight my honour and reputation by resting his charges on my birth.

  “Sir, I am an Englishman and the named heir to William Roch’s fortune. I beseech you to consider the charges against me without discrimination. I will not challenge your verdict, nor will I restate my defence. May the court judge me fairly.”

  Objections rose from the crowd, followed by shouts of protest from Thomas Roch. My barrister forced me to sit and mumbled obscenities while the magistrate commanded order.

  A verdict shall be announced tomorrow. I cannot predict the ruling, nor will I curse the outcome with a guess. If I am meant to live without fortune, I shall quit Atteberry and visit the Glas Family until I secure employment. Perhaps I shall offer myself as a teacher.

  Lorelai believes Mr. O’Connor would offer me a position at the Royal Academy.

  Blazes, I should get some rest before my mind stoops to dark places. I have not slept a full night in weeks. Lorelai gave me a valerian root tonic, but I doubt the remedy will help while I am anxious and horizontal on a strange bed. Against my better judgement, I rented a room at the public house so I can meet with my barrister in the morning.

  I shall be fortunate to manage an hour of uninterrupted slumber.

  I do not regret what I said in court, but my decision to speak posed threats to my case. For weeks my barrister told me to stay quiet and thus prevent surprise obstacles. I disobeyed him, and I may lose everything because of it. Whatever happens, at least I know the life that resides beyond this legal matter is mine, not the one Father designed for me. If I am to be penniless, then I shall earn my own wage.

  Father’s expectations will not control me anymore.

  Of course, without title and fortune, I cannot make you an offer of marriage. You deserve to find happiness with someone who possesses a home and decent means, for no lady should compromise her welfare. I refuse to prevent your comfort, so I shall withdraw my proposal if the magistrate rules against me. I want the inheritance for many reasons, most of which involve you.

  I sent a message to 11 Great Pulteney Street. You may receive it. At least such is my hope. Our continued friendship surpasses my desire for courtship. I love you, and love surpasses all want in such a way that I could never have you and still feel at peace.

  Your correspondence is my greatest aspiration.

  We have found ourselves in an unusual predicament. I confess attachment to someone I met by chance, and you are likely reading my letters, a bundle written over months of searching. Thanks to you, I feel more confident in my ability to express such feelings.

  Perhaps there was no moment in which I fell in love, rather a series of trips and tumbles.

  Or perhaps you were a part of me since the beginning.

  I best draw this report to a close and surrender my table to another patron. The public house appears busier than usual, perhaps due to the visiting militia. Arthur would have fancied the crowd, for he viewed such as an audience. He would have played his violin and ordered me to clown. I miss him, though not the headaches that followed our exploits.

  He would have commended my efforts today, I’m certain.

  Do not worry about me, Josephine. I shall carry on despite my misfortunes. I’ve read too many novels to believe in finality, for at the end of the story, there is a lot more story.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  October 1, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  The court ruled in my favour. Thomas Roch did not receive a penny of my inheritance, and neither did Admiral Gipson. Both men departed Atteberry, and I doubt they will return, for the locals seem vexed at them. Mrs. Dunstable reports a general displeasure among the townspeople in connection with my accusers. Granted, I do not bear any ill will. I am only glad to be liberated from the dispute. More than anything, I am pleased to renew my proposal for courtship.

  Father’s wealth and properties belong to me. Never again shall a person question my claim, for the laws of England have deemed me the legitimate heir. I can now offer myself as a suitor without hesitation. Would you consider me? Although we are not well acquainted in the traditional sense, I find myself irrevocably devoted to you, so much so I cannot fathom a match with anyone else. To love you is to believe a dream, and what a tremendous risk—to give myself to a hope, an inclination that we were designed for each other.

  I implore you to regard my proposal.

  Without legal matters to address, my li
fe seems close to normal. I write in my study, go on long walks, and read by the fire. Not much has changed at Cadwallader besides extra chores. I have spent the past few days shearing herds with the estate’s farmhands. We must finish the job this week so the wool has time to regrow before colder weather sets in. I also want to start lambing in a few months. Such a process dirties the wool if we fail to gather it prior.

  Father would laugh if he saw me labouring in the shed, but I rather enjoy the work. It is honest and useful. The shepherds are decent men, and they treat me well. I wish to toil alongside them, not lord over them. Perhaps I am not a real gentleman after all.

  Lorelai plans to leave Cadwallader once she makes travel arrangements. She intends to visit Mr. O’Connor in London despite her parents’ concern, for she expects an offer of marriage. She will stay with the Banes Family to avoid impropriety, a precaution which seems laughable.

  Arthur’s relatives view decorum with the upmost indifference.

  Since the court case, Lorelai has seemed in high spirits. She invites the farmhands to picnic with us and hosts dinner parties. When she tires of the house, she ventures to the shed. My foreman taught her to shear ewes. A poor decision. Now all Lorelai wants to do is help with the shearing. Indeed, Mrs. Glas would lynch me if she learned of her daughter’s new habit.