Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  “God have mercy.” Lady Welby clutched her mouth.

  Elias struggled to breathe, his face beading with sweat. He could’ve stopped Sebastian and Widow De Clare from eloping. His few hours of silence had allowed the marriage.

  He turned and studied Josephine, but her expression was unreadable, a wall of stone. She lifted her chin and blinked.

  “We discovered them at a public house in Rothbury,” Mr. Darling said. He stomped to knock the ice from his boots. “Sebastian sends his regards.”

  “That hateful child!” Mrs. Darling burst into tears. “Does he not realize what this will do to us? We’ll be laughingstocks.”

  “Papa, did you find Sebastian?” Kitty and Fitz raced down the staircase, tripping over each other to reach their father. “What happened, Papa?”

  “Your brother disgraced our family.” Mr. Darling rubbed his neck, perhaps stiff from riding in the cold. “I’ll speak more on the subject later. Right now I need a bath.” He groaned and staggered across the entrance hall, trailing melted snow.

  The women turned to Lord Welby for information.

  “A vicar married them not long before we arrived,” Lord Welby said. “They leave for London tomorrow.” He gave his outerwear to the butler, then strode toward the drawing room with a procession on his heels.

  “Did you give them money?” Lady Welby asked.

  “Not a penny. They intend to use Sebastian’s allowance for their honeymoon.” Lord Welby went to the room’s fireplace. He plopped into a chair and pried off his boots. “Blazes, I cannot feel my legs. Bitter cold out. Snow up to my knees.”

  Josephine muttered something under her breath. She clawed at her chest and drifted out of the chamber as though in a trance.

  “Josephine?” Elias left his place by the fire. He stepped into the corridor and searched for Josephine in the gloom, but she had vanished. His chest grew tight. Bile rose to his throat, and blood pounded in his ears.

  The front door flew open with a bang. Flurries whirled into the entrance hall and dusted the marble floor. Wind screamed through the house, snuffing candles with a sizzle.

  “Josephine!” Elias ran to the doorway and squinted against the blast of snow. He spotted her in the distance. She paddled through drifts as if they were ponds. She dashed toward the moors, her silhouette fading into darkness.

  “Is she mad?” the valet yelled. He joined Elias on the threshold and held a lantern to the night. “She’ll get lost out there. Storm will freeze her solid.”

  “Josephine, stop!” Elias sprinted from the house and crashed into snow. He shivered with a fear so vast and penetrating, it consumed him until he felt nothing . . .

  Until he was the fear.

  Nobody expected betrayal from the person closest to him. Such pain changed everything. It rendered trust null and void. It made hearts sceptical. Perhaps the worst part of betrayal wasn’t the act itself, rather becoming the victim of someone who called themselves a friend.

  Perhaps the worst part was loving someone who didn’t love back.

  “Where are you?” Elias yelled as the blizzard swirled. “Call out to me!”

  Cadwallader Park glowed in the murk. It hovered within the grey expanse, flickering an amber glow. The light would guide Elias and Josephine back to the house.

  “Josephine!” Elias trudged forward, the drifts swallowing his calves. He gasped as wind stung his face and shoved him sideways. The cold had teeth, but the storm had fangs. It chewed through his clothes and froze his skin.

  It breathed snow into his lungs.

  He coughed and shielded his eyes. He shouted until his voice went hoarse, his mouth like cotton. If he didn’t find Josephine soon, they might both freeze.

  Elias wouldn’t let Josephine perish. He would search the moors until he found her. Then he’d squeeze her tight and tell her to break but not to stay broken, to let the tears fall so she could find joy again. Indeed, grief was a solo process, but one needed a friend to set their broken pieces so they could heal whole, not crippled.

  A gale parted the snowfall, revealing her sprawled in a nearby drift with her knees drawn to her chest. “Josephine!” He collapsed and pulled her body into his lap. He scraped his numb fingers against her dress, brushing snow from the thin fabric.

  “I’m ruined,” she cried. “I’m ruined.”

  “You’re safe. Everything will be fine.” Elias kissed a line across her frigid brow. She was dear to him. In sanity and madness, she was forever dear.

  “Why did Mum run off with him? She knew what it would do to me. She knew . . . and she did it anyway,” Josephine said between sobs. Her body shook. Her teeth chattered.

  Her skin was ice, but her eyes were boiling.

  “Let’s get you indoors.” Elias wiggled out of his jacket and wrapped it around Josephine’s shoulders. He cradled her against his chest, pain engulfing him until it became a friend, then an ally, the only thing keeping him from total despair.

  “You don’t understand.” Josephine pulled back, weeping, her cheeks burned red with snow. “Your father won’t let us marry now.”

  “Nonsense.” Elias lifted her from the drift and headed toward the manor’s glow.

  Josephine cried into the crease of his neck. “You didn’t kiss me,” she wheezed. “This morning . . . You didn’t kiss me.” Her body relaxed, drooping from his arms like a bundle of blankets. She drew a breath and released it as a trickle of vapour. “We were a nice dream.”

  TWENTY

  JOSIE

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Friday, September 22, 6:40 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: About Elias Roch and Life Stuff

  Faith, I predict Lord Welby won’t be thrilled about Elias and Josephine’s engagement. Maybe he’ll present an ultimatum—Josephine or the inheritance. Isn’t that how most Regency romances go? Rich boy must sacrifice everything to be with the girl he loves. Clichés exist for a reason, I suppose. People must either fantasize about them, or they really do happen.

  Wouldn’t that be nice—to live a life full of clichés? Knowing our dear Elias, he will abandon his wealth and marry Josephine. They’ll live happily ever after. And me . . . Well, I’ll be here in this draughty old house, miserably left out.

  We agreed to biweekly updates, but I don’t have much news. Work seems about the same. (My boss lets me ice cakes now.) I still go to club meetings every Wednesday despite the fact recent gatherings consist of Lucille and Margery fawning over Oliver. They love him. Really, really love him. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. He’s a brilliant knitter. He knitted a red stocking cap for me, even made a pom-pom for the top.

  He forces me to wear it at least once a week.

  A few days ago, I went to a ceilidh with Oliver and his grandparents. It was a social event for Scots, held at a community centre in the hamlet north of Atteberry. As expected, Oliver and I were the youngest in attendance. That’s not a complaint. I rather enjoy old folk. They make superb food, tell interesting stories, and they give loads of compliments. Now I’m not saying I like elderly people because they tell me I’m pretty. Maybe that’s true, but I’m not saying it.

  Oliver taught me traditional Scottish dances, a feat which should’ve earned him a medal. He looked hilarious in his kilt. (I attached a photo to this email.) We danced for a while, and then he persuaded me to eat haggis. Awful stuff. I didn’t like it one bit.

  We are mates. That’s all. I know he likes me, but he hasn’t mentioned any non-friend feelings. So I’ll pretend I don’t notice and carry on with our escapades. Maybe I’m wicked to keep my mouth shut. Maybe I should tell him I’m in love with someone who no longer exists.

  But I’m afraid he’ll leave once he finds out.

  He makes Atteberry seem less dreary with his cowlicked hair and ridiculous smile. We laugh a lot when we’re together. On Wednesdays we drive the motorcycle to knitting club, then stop by
the café for dessert. Sometimes we organize Norman and Martha’s living room into a makeshift cinema, and we screen vintage movies.

  Faith, I only have a few more letters to read, and I’m nearing the conclusion of Elias’s novel. Part of me needs to know what happens because . . . I still believe I’ll meet Elias somehow. But if I finish the book, all this comes to an end.

  FaceTime me when you get the chance.

  Josie

  P.S. Mum is dating a young bloke. Coincidence?

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Faith Moretti

  Sent: Saturday, October 2, 8:37 AM

  To: Josie De Clare

  Subject: Re: About Elias Roch and Life Stuff

  Josie, I’ll begin with the less spectacular news.

  My fall semester includes a lot of classes, homework, and midnight trips to the gym. Last night I saw my Mass Media and Society professor on the elliptical and fled to the locker room so I wouldn’t laugh at him. He wore spandex and a sweatband. Total babe magnet.

  A new bookstore opened on my block. It has three floors and a spiral staircase. Pretty sure I keep its coffee bar in business. If you ever visit New York, I’ll take you to the shop, and we can sip lattes while perusing the aisles.

  Do me a favor and sit down for this next part.

  Noah came to my apartment yesterday out of the blue. I answered the door while wearing a nose-peel thingy. Like, the kind used to tear out blackheads.

  He apologized for pressuring me about the engagement and presented a peace offering of Starbucks coffee. We chatted for a while. Noah said he’d pushed for marriage because he wanted to spend his life with me and didn’t see the point of waiting.

  But he swore he’d wait until I was ready.

  At that moment I thought about you and Elias, how you’d give anything for ten minutes with him. I mean, I can go on dates with Noah, talk to him face-to-face. He lives down the block, not two hundred years in the past. Okay . . . so yeah, I kind of broke up with Noah. Don’t freak out. (I’m imagining your expression. Jaw dropped. Brows raised. Eyes all buggy.)

  The breakup wasn’t bad like last time. I think we both realized we still have a lot of growing up to do. Believe me. We love each other. And who knows? Maybe we’ll get back together one day, after we do our study abroad trips. Yep. That’s right.

  I’m going to Milan for that fashion internship.

  Please don’t act grim and sympathetic. This is a good thing, Josie. I’m excited for the first time in months. When I moved back to New York, I struggled to decide what I wanted from life. My family hoped I’d get married and settle into this future they’d dreamed up for me. Noah had wants too. And I felt guilty for loving him but not wanting him.

  I broke up with Noah for that reason. He wasn’t my first choice. Each time I think about my future, I picture my own store and clothing line and maybe a family. Maybe Noah. Maybe that house in Jersey. And he does not deserve a maybe life.

  Really, I think my happy ending right now isn’t getting the boy. It’s doing what I’m passionate about, moving forward in a direction I choose.

  Lots of girls believe they’ll be happier once they find Prince Charming, but marriage isn’t a fairy godmother waving a wand to change a pumpkin into a carriage. It doesn’t instantly transform people into better versions of themselves. Instead, it brings couples together and asks them to use love as a reason to become better. It’s hard. It sure as heck doesn’t make life easier.

  Maybe one day I’ll be ready for the challenge.

  Not everyone will understand my reasons for breaking up with Noah. (I’ve already received half a dozen calls from our parents, voicemails from his sister, and an opinionated Facebook message from Uncle Sal.) But that’s okay. We each must live our own story, like you said in your email. This story belongs to me.

  Despite the breakup, I’m glad Noah and I dated. Our relationship shouldn’t have lasted so long. We met at a middle-school dance. We dated via FaceTime while I was at Stonehill. I must say the miracle wasn’t that we ended up together. It was finding each other in the first place.

  We’ll stay friends and see what happens.

  There. You have my news. Now I want to talk about you and your boy problems. First off, I’m glad you’re reading the chapters, but your predictions aren’t one hundred percent correct. Keep reading. The book’s conclusion may help you make sense of your situation.

  Please don’t hate me for saying this . . .

  I want you with Oliver. The fact he knitted you a hat gives me all the feels. Yeah, I know you don’t like him. He deserves to know where you stand, though.

  Your updates put a smile on my face. I’m happy to know you aren’t hiding in your mansion, attempting to conjure spirits. Has anything strange happened since the candle incident? What did Elias say in his letters? We talk about his novel, but I want to hear about the notes.

  Keep me posted.

  Faith

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Thursday, October 14, 12:09 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: I Messed Up

  Faith, I messed up. I didn’t say what I needed to say, and I don’t know what to say now to fix my not saying. Last night seemed great until my not saying happened. Well, it started to get awkward when Oliver pulled me aside. Scratch that. I’ll start at the beginning.

  Oliver and I went to an early Halloween party at the Knitting Emporium. Lucille had decorated the shop with yarn made to resemble spider webs. Margery had created a witch’s brew punch—a mixture of ice cream and ginger ale. Really, the festivities took me by surprise. Who would’ve thought a group of knitters could be so fun?

  We played charades and a murder mystery game until our senior members’ bedtime. Oh, I wish you could’ve seen the costumes. Dorrit and Clare wore kitty ears. Stuart arrived wearing a Batman suit. Lucille wrapped her body in toilet paper and called herself a mummy. However, the winner of my silent costume contest was for sure Margery. She’d knitted herself a Tinkerbell outfit complete with a dress, slippers, and a yarn wig.

  Oliver and I hugged everyone good night. We left the shop and strolled to where he’d parked the motorcycle. Atteberry seemed quieter than usual, almost deserted. No one walked the pavement or drove their cars down the main street.

  I saw the words on Oliver’s face before he spoke them.

  He told me he wanted to be more than friends. He said he’d liked me since the day I almost killed him with a sword. (That’s what gets the boys—threatening to behead them.) My heart dropped. I didn’t know what to say, so I stared at him like a halfwit.

  We drove to Cadwallader in silence. I thanked Oliver for the ride, then went indoors and drowned my nerves with chamomile tea. I messed up, Faith. I should’ve told him about Elias. I should’ve explained myself. Tell me what to do!

  Josie

  (Sent from iPhone)

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Friday, October 22, 3:16 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: I Messed Up

  Faith, I texted Oliver a week ago, but I haven’t seen him since the Halloween party. He leaves firewood on my doorstep while I’m at work. He goes to the shed whenever I visit Norman and Martha. I need to explain what happened that night, why I’m unable to return his feelings.

  But I can’t get a moment alone with him.

  An ice storm has trapped me at Cadwallader Manor. I’ve enjoyed the solitude under the circumstances. During the day I retile the kitchen and rummage through boxes I found in the attic. Nan stays with me at night. Martha visits on occasion.

  You asked if I’d experienced strange happenings. Yes, I have witnessed peculiarities within this house. For example, the other night, I carried a candle to the se
cond floor. (The storm had caused the electricity to go out.) As I walked down the hallway, a draught came from nowhere and extinguished my candle. I stood frozen, my heart beating so fast, I almost passed out. That’s when I heard it—a faint whisper. It breezed across my neck, sultry like an exhale.

  I almost peed my pants.

  What if Elias is in this house? I mean, why would fate bring me to Cadwallader if not to unite Elias and me? What’s the point of all this if we don’t end up together?

  Records do not reveal where Elias was buried. The manor doesn’t possess evidence of his later life. It’s as though he vanished.

  I will find him.

  Josie

  * * *

  TWENTY-ONE

  ELIAS

  December 2, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  Scribble these words onto a scrap of paper and tuck them into your pocket. Recite them to yourself when you feel despondent, and please do not forget me. Remember I adore your funny expressions, how you furrow your brow when you laugh and smile, when you are cross. I fancy your quickness to tease me and your giggle, that sound you make when you are happy for no specific reason. I love that you argue your opinions even when you know they are wrong.