Mrs. Dunstable and Lorelai refuse to admit they have formed an alliance, but I am sure of it. Yesterday, when I returned from the pastures, they forced me to bathe in the kitchen yard, claiming my stench would ruin the house. Lorelai brought ice water and soap from the scullery, then laughed as I attempted to wash behind a bedsheet.
I shall miss her company, for the estate seems large and desolate when I am alone. Perhaps I shall travel next year. Edward and Mary Rose invited me to tour with them for the social season, attend parties, stay with affluent connections. I am inclined to accept.
No reply has arrived from 11 Great Pulteney Street. I check the post each afternoon, hoping for news of you. Lorelai tells me not to worry. She believes I shall receive a response despite the social season’s end. Oh, how I pray you are the Josephine De Clare in Bath.
Yours ever,
Elias
P.S. I still wait for you.
October 11, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
There’s a stack of letters in my desk drawer. It grows a bit higher each month, the papers various sizes, all sealed with red wax and addressed to you. Although no word has arrived from Bath, I cannot help but wonder if sending the letters, reintroducing myself in such a manner after nearly a year apart, is a wise decision. You may have forgotten our meeting or secured an appropriate match.
Beyond those concerns, I worry you will not fancy me. I am not a brawny man, nor do I speak how I write. If you recall, I am rather diffident, perhaps even comical at times. Arthur and I got on for that reason. I muck about more than I should. Truly, my pen gives me a bold persona, but I am known for being quiet and sarcastic. I would never dare make these sentiments known if not for what you said that night. Indeed, unrequited emotions best suit me.
I cannot sleep, hence my sudden apprehension. Not even a spot of brandy calms me. I crouch on the floor of my chambers, surrounded by papers and books. For hours I worked on my novel, but the story only magnifies this ache—this desperation—within me. I fear you will deign to consider my proposal, but I also cannot stomach the notion of never speaking to you again.
You have haunted my thoughts for months. I think about your wild hair and your ridiculous laugh, how you spoke as though we have been friends since childhood. I still remember the patter of your feet as you grabbed my hands and forced me into a country dance.
My life revolved around formalities until I met you. Then, I met you, and my heart was yours. Completely. In a moment. I was yours.
Shakespeare mastered the art of romantic declaration, but I am quite poor at it, and no amount of practice seems to mend the inadequacy. Instead of endeavouring to craft an orotund sentiment, I shall state myself with plainness.
Josephine, regardless of my faults, I have one detail in my favour. I love you most ardently. If you accept my offer of courtship, and if we find ourselves inclined to marry, I promise to stand by you all the days of my life, to be your friend—the boy who kept you company that fated night—first and foremost. Upon these words, I swear it.
We met for a reason, one that must extend beyond this lopsided correspondence. Some opportunities present themselves but once, and if not seized, they are lost forever. I cannot miss this chance, so I will post the letters. Yes, I have made up my mind.
A place is only good if we keep good company there. No amount of rain or fog could dim that goodness, for the good is not contingent on circumstance, rather on the people who fill it.
I want Cadwallader to be a safe place for us, where we can grow old and be happy. I wish to show you the gorse alcove, take you on walks across the moors.
Even if you refuse my proposal, you are welcome here.
The autumn weather has caused me to develop a cough. I feel ill, another reason for my lack of sleep. Mrs. Dunstable claims my late nights will prolong the illness and prompt listless behaviour. She is likely correct. I should retire.
My novel keeps your memory close, Josephine. I hope you might read it one day. Whenever I sort through its chapters, I am reminded we are on the same page in different books, together in spirit despite our separate lives.
I anticipate a day when our stories collide again.
Yours ever,
Elias
October 13, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I am most unwell. My body rebels against me, shivering as if cold pierces my skin. I lie near the study’s fireplace, wrapped in quilts, for I cannot seem to get warm.
Rain beads on the windowpanes, and a blue haze spools between curtains, brightening the gloom like cream poured into a cup of black tea. I can almost see the cerulean pigment swirling above me. Indeed, to perish from illness while surrounded by books seems fitting, for I am more ink and paper than skin and bones.
I fear this letter may be my last. I cannot stop coughing or shaking. Earlier today Mrs. Dunstable brought me a bowl of white soup. I could not eat it, not even a spoonful. Mother experienced these same symptoms when she contracted winter fever. She struggled to breathe for two weeks until her lungs filled with bile.
I may join Arthur and my parents soon.
Lorelai packed her trunks and hired a coach to take her to London. She departs tomorrow. I do not wish to further postpone her travels, so I fake good health in her company. The charade grows challenging to maintain, for I cannot walk more than a few steps without fatiguing.
She may detect my sorry disposition when she bids farewell. What then? Will she forgo her plans to look after me? No, no. I shall not subject her to further impropriety. Perhaps Mrs. Dunstable will devise an excuse for my poor state. Already I implored her not to say a word about my illness. I told her about the letters in my desk.
Mrs. Dunstable promised to send them to 11 Great Pulteney Street if I die.
Although no one has confirmed your presence in Bath, I do not wish my letters to go unread. Maybe the Josephine De Clare at that address can help my messages reach you.
You deserve to know my feelings regardless of my end.
I do not wish to go, for I feel close to the life I want. All my hopes and aspirations seem a mere step away. But I may not reach them, and that scares me. After so much loss, I thought my luck would change and I would know what it’s like to have. To have a home.
To have a moment with you.
Please come to Cadwallader after my death, that is, if the fever does claim me. You shall find a manuscript under my bookcase. It is yours. Do what you like with it.
Until my last breath, I promise my arms will always welcome you. My soul will never grow cold toward you. My safe place, my home, is yours also, and regardless of where you go, who you love, I will adore you endlessly.
Here is to hoping for more breaths.
Elias
FIFTEEN
THE NOVEL
November wreathed Cadwallader Park in fog so thick the Darlings refused to leave their property. They wore thick garments and sipped elderberry wine as their staff prepared hot baths, bed warmers, and a surplus of lanterns. The days seemed dark, the nights darker.
And yet laughter swept through the house.
Elias and Josephine spent the weeks in a series of fine conversations. No one batted an eye at their togetherness, so they remained side by side, occupied by their own diversions. They played cricket with Sebastian and the valet. They explored the estate, smuggled chocolates from the kitchen, and read in Elias’s library until the candles burned low.
Being with Josephine drew Elias into plain view. Her friendship warmed him like a cup of tea, but it never grew cold, nor did it run dry. He craved the sound of her voice, the way she looked at him when he made her smile. To know and love her heart seemed the greatest pursuit, so he woke each morning with that single goal in mind. He finished his lessons.
He rehearsed the spiel intended for his relatives.
Love felt by one could easily go unrequited. However, when that love was returned or even given hope of return, it seemed impossible to stay silent. Elias had sensed
affection from Josephine. He knew his feelings were felt by her also, and such unity of heart whispered possibilities that once seemed beyond reach.
Josephine was betrothed to Sebastian. Etiquette interdicted his pursuit of her. Still, if neither she nor Sebastian desired the union, and if Mr. Darling found another lady to fill her position, could not scandal be avoided? Engagements were contractual agreements, but such were voided all the time. And love seemed too paramount to overlook.
The obstacles Elias perceived grew smaller by the day. He no longer fretted about scandal, for he could avoid dishonour by merely speaking to his relatives. He didn’t pay mind to matters of his illegitimacy, for his wealth more than compensated. Indeed, everything that had deterred him from declaring his sentiments now dissipated.
Elias would petition Sebastian and Mr. Darling. He would inform Josephine of his attachment. Of course, his efforts could prove futile—he almost expected disaster—but when fear gnawed at his will, courage was the quiet voice saying, “You might fail, but why not try?”
The fog subsided one morning, a mere week before Saint Andrew’s Day. Such an opportunity could not be missed, for the murk would undoubtedly return. Everyone gathered in the entrance hall to bid farewell to Sebastian and Widow De Clare, both of whom desired to visit London until mid-December. Mrs. Darling issued commands while the butler and valet hauled trunks out the front door to the awaiting carriage.
Elias stood with the kitchen staff to avoid his relatives’ fuss. He leaned against the staircase bannister and made faces at Fitz. The lad appeared bored out of his mind.
“I’ll return once I finish business. Do try to have fun without me,” Sebastian said. He kissed Josephine’s hand, then hurried to say good-bye to his siblings.
“Ah, is that what they’re calling it these days?” Anne scoffed and crossed her arms. She met Elias’s questioning look with a shrug. “We know very well the gentleman enjoys his follies and vices. I daresay his business includes excessive merriment.”
“He should be ashamed of himself, the miserable little sot,” Mrs. Capers said. She eyed the adjoining corridor and fidgeted with her apron. Mrs. Darling had insisted she abandon her buttered apple tarts for the departure. At any moment smoke could plume from the stairwell.
“Do you think Miss De Clare knows?” Anne whispered.
Josephine lingered beneath the family crest. She observed the commotion from a distance, her demeanour polite and subdued. Sebastian had gifted her a royal blue redingote and white muslin gown after the hunting incident, perhaps to replace her threadbare dress. She wore the clothes now, her hair pinned at the nape of her neck.
“Yes, I believe she does.” Elias clutched a history book to his chest. He’d woken before dawn to finish his lessons so he and Josephine could spend the day outdoors. Nothing cured heartache like fresh air and open spaces, for nature shrank problems to scale.
“And she plans to marry him? Why?” Anne tugged Elias’s sleeve to capture his attention. “You’re wealthier and more respectable than your cousin. Why doesn’t Josephine marry you?”
Elias sighed. “Ask me that question in a few weeks. Perhaps I’ll have an answer.”
Widow De Clare buttoned her fur-trimmed pelisse. She donned gloves and a feathered bonnet, her dark curls dangling around her face like streamers. “Will you fare well without me, dearest?” she asked her daughter while rummaging through her reticule.
“I’ll get on.” Josephine glanced at Elias. She flashed a smile, a glimmer at the bottom of a deep pool. In her eyes sparkled weeks of inside jokes, playtime with Kitty and Fitz, and races across the front lawn. She was undimmed. And one look from her swept Elias back to the bonfire, where she’d cupped his face and kissed him as if they were two people with all possibilities in reach. She did not care about his illegitimate birth. She had to love him. What else could explain her desire for no other companionship but his?
“Your aunt wishes me to visit only a fortnight. I shall return before the Christmas ball.” Widow De Clare pecked Josephine’s cheek, then followed the butler out the front door.
“Take care of your future mother-in-law.” Mr. Darling gave Sebastian a firm handshake.
“Yes, yes, I’ll ensure she reaches her destination.” Sebastian flitted about like a bird anxious to leave his cage. He strode toward Elias, his mouth twitching into a smirk. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, old chap. Pray I return with good stories.”
“Don’t make a fool of yourself,” Elias said. “Consider your fiancée—”
“Entertain her, would you? I mean, you’ve done such a great job. She hasn’t bothered me one bit.” Sebastian smacked Elias’s shoulder and winked. “I owe you a night at the pub.”
“Please, no.”
“Fine. I owe you a stack of books or a new tailcoat—or buckskins for your next roll down a hill.” Sebastian tipped his hat. “Until next time.”
Once the carriage set off, Miss Karel led the children to their schoolroom. Mr. and Mrs. Darling headed toward their private sitting chambers, Mrs. Capers dashed to her tarts, and the staff resumed their duties. Within a matter of seconds, the hall emptied, leaving Josephine and Elias alone on the checkered floor.
Elias cleared his throat. “My cousin travels south at least twice a year.”
“I’m not daft. I know what Sebastian intends to do in London,” Josephine said. Her expression hardened until it resembled stone. “You must wonder—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” Elias clasped his hands behind his back. He stood across from her as if ready for a dance. “It’s not my business to make assumptions.”
“But you do. We all do.” She tiptoed forward, each step clapping her soles against marble. She tilted back her head and gazed at Elias’s face, her neck so exposed, he ached to slide his thumb along its ridges. “When my father died, he left us with his debt. Mother and I sold our lands to pay the sum, but it wasn’t enough.”
“Josephine . . .” Elias squirmed. Her financial circumstance was not his business, at least not yet. He planned to petition Mr. Darling once Sebastian returned. Then he would know for certain whether he and Josephine stood a chance at togetherness.
“The Darlings own my family home,” she said. “They acquired it after Father’s death.”
“What, you’ll wed Sebastian for a house?” Elias clenched his fists and scanned the hall’s faded paintings. A chill infiltrated his bones. An empty cold that stripped him of Josephine’s warmth. No, he couldn’t stand idle and let her marry Sebastian to salvage her father’s assets.
“I’m destitute. I have my good birth, that is all,” Josephine whispered. “If I marry into the family, Mr. Darling will allow Mother to live in the town home that was once my father’s.” Elias grabbed her shoulders, his arms shaking. “Let me help. I’ll purchase the estate from my uncle. You can have it back—”
“I need more than a house.” Her voice cracked, letting the truth shine through. She had agreed to marry Sebastian for the security and station he’d provide. A penniless woman, even one of noble birth, would struggle to find a gentleman husband. And society thumbed its nose at poor spinsters, for those who were alone reminded everyone else of their loneliness.
“What do you require? Tell me, and it’s yours.” Elias crouched to her level and breathed in her perfume, a spellbinding aroma of rose, bergamot, and pear. He waited for her response. He stared at her mouth, hoping and praying she’d ask him to propose. He could give her wealth and title, return the De Clare home. And she loved him. He was sure of it.
“People like us . . . We cannot afford to be romantic,” Josephine said. She touched his wrists and mustered a smile, her pert nose reddening. The silence that followed suggested she knew his intentions. She knew, yet she did not accept them. She gave a nod, perhaps to both commend his efforts and call them pointless.
Elias stepped backward. He blinked to blur the realization, but it did not stand before him, dressed in another man’s clothes. No, it stood with
in his shoes.
He was to blame for his and Josephine’s separation.
“The Darlings wish Sebastian to avoid further scandal by settling down,” Josephine whispered. “They do not care about my lack of wealth. I have a respectable pedigree, so as far as they’re concerned, I am a suitable match. I’m grateful, really. Few gentlemen would deign to marry a woman of little means, for society promotes constant betterment.”
A breath jerked Elias’s chest. He turned his face so Josephine wouldn’t see his pain. Of course she was right. Most families desired their children to rise in station through matrimony.
Lord Welby was one of those families.
“Sebastian will not break our engagement. His parents offered him an increased allowance for marrying me. Isn’t that flattering?” Josephine wiped her eyes. “I shall marry him, and you’ll find someone who pleases your father. We must do what’s expected of us.”
Elias shook his head, a mixture of disappointment and grief coursing through him. He had believed the engagement divided him from Josephine, but it was his need to earn Lord Welby’s approval. Him. He was the obstacle. And he couldn’t rise above himself.
Josephine moved toward the staircase. She paused beneath the chandelier and glanced over her shoulder. “Please do not pity me, Elias. A loveless marriage is far better than poverty.”
“But what is living without love?” He loathed himself for asking the question. It seemed flowery and insincere, unlike a man’s thoughts.
Josephine held his gaze, her figure slight compared to the grand room. “Love must reside in your safe place—among the gorse—with all other fanciful things I cannot have.”
Dearest Josephine Page 16
