I love every detail of you.
Our souls belong together. Perhaps at the beginning of time, when God paired His creations two by two, He placed us at each other’s side. I like to think we were meant for more than separation, that a mistake was made. However, I do not believe God makes errors, which means He intended us to live apart. Mind you, I have not surrendered hope in our togetherness, but I have reached a crossroad and must decide which path to take.
A coach arrived this morning. Its driver hauled trunks from the house while Lorelai bade my staff farewell. She thanked me for my hospitality, then strode toward the carriage with her chin lowered, blocking me from view with her bonnet’s brim.
I stood on the front step with arms crossed behind my back, no better than Lord Roch when he sent me away from his home. Indeed, I have turned into my father.
Lorelai spun around once she reached the coach. She gazed at me with tears in her eyes and rushed forward, her shoes crunching gravel until we stood face-to-face.
With her chin now lifted, Lorelai told me she wished to preserve what little remained of her self-respect, yet she felt possessed to speak. She said I was a wretched man—I believed myself undeserving of affection, hence my attachment to someone I could not locate. She claimed I had proven my love for her through our friendship, which she did not consider platonic or temporary. She then admitted her lack of interest in Mr. O’Connor.
I opened my mouth, but Lorelai hushed me. She restated what I had said at the ball and told me I had offended her by presuming to know what was in her best interest. She said, “How dare you cast preconceived notions upon me. I know my own mind. I decide what brings me happiness. And despite your ignorance and dismissal, I am certain of my love for you.”
She revealed she had loved me since our arrival at Cadwallader. Nevertheless, she refused to wait another day, for I had proven my inability to view her as anything more than a friend. She vowed neither to nurse my devotion to you nor stay where she was not welcome.
Her declaration and, frankly, her insults rendered me speechless. I closed my mouth. I stared at her face, spotting hints of you, not in her features, rather in the steel that supported them. She understood how I worked, saw me like gears and cogs behind a clockface.
We had become such dear friends.
Lorelai acknowledged my bond with you. She said, “I do not wish to replace her in your heart, rather join her there. People cannot love everyone the same, for no two loves are the same. Love her the way you need, but I ask—and I humble myself with these words—if you could love me in a different way. I think you do, but regardless of your feelings, I pray you will remember what I have said. I pray you will realize you are worthy of good things.”
Memories seemed to awaken within my head, gaining a fresh slant. I recalled the afternoons I had spent with Lorelai in my study, how she read on the settee while I wrote. I remembered the way she peered over my shoulder as I painted your portrait, our quiet evenings in the drawing room when we played cards and told stories. From the moment she and Arthur first entered my house, she lingered nearby, waiting for me.
I daresay we were contented all that time.
Lorelai turned to leave, but I stopped her. The idea of loving someone other than you seemed like heresy, and yet I asked her to stay. I am not sure about love, but I know I am not indifferent toward her. Indeed, much can grow from lack of indifference.
This event appears the denouement of a lifelong quest. I am not sure where to go from here or if I made the right choice. At present I sprawl within my gorse alcove while Lorelai unpacks her trunks indoors. She will stay at Cadwallader, and I will ponder what best to do.
Her family will expect an offer of marriage soon.
I shall not propose to Lorelai unless my feelings change, for the girl deserves someone who returns her affections in full. I will endeavour to make amends, however, during which time I’ll cling to the hope that one day, after such a strenuous wait, I shall hold you in my arms and whisper against your lips, “My dearest, you were worth every second.”
Yours ever,
Elias
P.S. I shall ride to Morpeth tomorrow.
TWENTY-TWO
THE NOVEL
News of Sebastian and Widow De Clare’s elopement left Cadwallader Park in a sullen humour. The manor’s occupants sulked about. They dined in their chambers. They whispered about Josephine’s health, for her flight to the moors had caused quite a stir. Their mood infused the house with a frigid dampness, its presence enhanced by the ash-grey dimness of a winter sun. Indeed, the Christmas ball seemed deep in the past, buried under snow and ice, snuffed by a sense of dread.
Elias ascended the staircase and wandered toward his study. He buttoned his jacket over a white waistcoat, his breath like steam in the corridor. He despised the cold, for it reminded him of Josephine’s shivering body, her final words as he carried her across the snowscape. Only a few hours separated him from that memory. A few hours of waiting and praying. A few hours spent in darkness, then at a vacant breakfast table.
A kindled fire and cup of tea would revive him.
He entered the west wing as Mr. Darling’s valet attempted to haul a portmanteau—a chest embossed with the letter J—to the servants’ stairwell.
“What are you doing with Miss De Clare’s trunk?” Elias asked.
“Lady Welby told me to carry it downstairs.” The valet tilted backward to balance the luggage on his chest. He staggered forward, ramming against a door frame.
“Downstairs?” Elias tasted the word’s connotations. He cleared his throat and waved at Anne, who crouched on the floor with a bucket and rag. “Do you know what’s happening?”
She rose onto her knees and dabbed sweat from her brow. “I overheard Josephine tell Mrs. Darling she plans to return to her mother’s cottage in Morpeth.”
“What?” Elias tensed. Josephine wouldn’t leave Cadwallader, not when she was engaged.
“The girl hasn’t recovered from the shock of . . .” Anne resumed her scrubbing, perhaps worried the butler might find her idle. “Talk to Miss De Clare. She’s in your library.”
Elias hurried to the annex. He barged into his study, the door swinging open with a clap.
Josephine sat at his desk, clothed in her mother’s grey bombazine gown and black velvet pelisse. Mrs. Darling had insisted she wear the clothes, for the heavy fabric provided more warmth than muslin.
“You’re leaving?” Elias said.
She looked over her shoulder and nodded. Her skin was like the moon. Her eyes were veined with red. “There’s nothing left for me here,” she whispered. “I must go someplace else.”
“But we’re engaged.” He crossed the room, where they’d built forts and talked for hours on end. His chest ached as though to warn him of coming pain.
Josephine rose from her chair. She gazed up at Elias’s face, her nose reddening. “Your father won’t let you marry me—”
“I’ll speak with him.” Elias cupped the back of her neck. He wanted to beg her not to lose hope, for they were but a vow away from togetherness. They were so close.
A tear spilled down her cheek and splotched her neckline.
“Stay,” he breathed. “I’ll go talk to my father.”
Josephine squeezed Elias’s wrist, then returned to her chair. She sank into a puddle of inky fabric and stared out the window. Her expression darkened as if she’d accepted the fate Widow De Clare had sealed. She would become a spinster, alone and destitute.
“I’ll kiss you in the morning,” Elias said. He left the study, his heart racing when he realized her touch—the squeeze of his wrist—was no consolation.
Her touch was tragedy.
Elias went to the parlour located behind the dining room. He peered into the chamber, where Lord Welby lounged on a sofa, flipping through The Morning Post.
“Father, may I speak with you?” Elias asked. He stepped over the threshold and beheld the room’s silk wallpaper and pianoforte. At
this time of day, Kitty liked to use the space for her music lessons. Perhaps she had postponed her practice due to yesterday’s upset.
Lord Welby glanced up from the newspaper. “Of course. Do come in.” He smacked the pages as Elias walked to an armchair. “Have you seen The Morning Post? Ghastly stuff.”
“Not yet.” Elias sunk into the chair. He coughed and bounced his leg to ease his nerves. “Do you recall our conversation at the ball? About marriage?”
“Indeed. You expressed interest in a lady engaged to be married,” Lord Welby said with a smirk. He folded the newspaper and placed it on a side table.
“Yes, well, that lady . . . She is no longer involved.” Elias slumped forward as bile shot up his throat. He couldn’t afford to lose his composure or be sick on the rug, for the next few minutes would determine his and Josephine’s future.
The next few minutes could ruin everything.
Lord Welby grew stiff with realization. He stared at Elias, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. “Have you made your intentions known?”
“Yes,” Elias said with a nod. “We’d like your blessing.”
“Are you mad?” Lord Welby snapped. He rose from the sofa like a snake, uncurling into a tower of pale skin and fine clothes. “You wish to marry Josephine De Clare?”
“I love her.” Elias gripped the chair’s armrests. He needed to make his father see sense before an ultimatum was made.
“Tush,” Lord Welby sneered. “She is your cousin’s former betrothed, now his stepdaughter. Consider the scandal you’d bring upon our family.”
“Josephine is innocent—”
“No one is innocent in conversation, not when speculation offers amusement. People wish to believe the worst, for the wickedness of others dims their own sins.” Lord Welby paced the room, fuming. He shook his head. “For years I fought to make you more than an illegitimate son. I gave you the Welby name, an education, and sent you into society to find your place. All my hard work shall mean nothing if you marry the daughter of a penniless trollop.”
“The public will not reject Josephine. She’ll have my name to protect her,” Elias yelled.
Lord Welby paused next to the pianoforte. He studied Elias in silence, his demeanour less hostile. “I have nothing against Miss De Clare. In fact, I sympathize with her predicament. Your uncle and I plan to provide her with a yearly sum of one hundred forty pounds—”
“She doesn’t want your money!”
“Then who will put food on her table? It shan’t be you. I forbid it.” Lord Welby waved his hand as though to dismiss Elias. “Go to London. Find yourself a respectable bride.”
“Do you think my feelings shallow, that I’m able to purge myself of attachment?” Elias trembled, his breaths quickening. “I am not like you and Sebastian.”
Lord Welby laughed. “Come now. The moment a prettier girl looks your way you’ll forget about Miss De Clare.”
“Is that what happened to your wife?”
“Watch your tongue. You understand the responsibilities that come with your position. Regardless of your emotions, you must do what’s best for your family. You’re a Welby. Your offspring will be my grandchildren. They’ll inherit from you what I give to you. Do you wish to sacrifice your future—their future—for a passing fancy?”
“Are you threatening me?” Elias stood at attention and met his father’s gaze with a scowl. He panted, his vision blurring with heat as he realized the game was over. He had lost.
“My heir will not marry someone of disreputable pedigree.” Lord Welby clasped his hands behind his back and strode across the room, his footsteps rattling a tea stand.
“Do you not recognize the hypocrisy of your words? We are no better than Josephine and Widow De Clare,” Elias yelled. “I am your bastard. You cannot expect—”
“You’re set to inherit Windermere Hall and ten thousand pounds a year. Women shall throw themselves at you,” Lord Welby said. “I expect a great deal from you because I can.”
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me—”
“And you shall continue to do so.” Lord Welby paused in the doorway and held Elias’s gaze. “Be wise about your decision, Son.”
“You would disinherit me?” Elias wheezed. He was Lord Welby’s only child, the sole heir to the Welby fortune. His father wouldn’t bequeath the sum to a stranger.
“Josephine will leave Cadwallader Park this afternoon. I suggest you let her go,” Lord Welby said without a trace of compassion. He vanished from the threshold, his words lingering like a bitter aftertaste.
Elias collapsed onto a chair. He clutched his mouth and wept, a gut-wrenching ache burrowing down his throat, into his lungs. How could he provide for Josephine if Lord Welby estranged him? He was reliant on his father’s generosity. Without the inheritance, he possessed the clothes on his person, nothing more. Indeed, the household staff earned a higher wage.
Josephine would gain more support from his relatives if he broke off their engagement.
The realization made Elias sob. Anguish shook him, each sputter and gasp an explosion of hot pain within his torso. If possible, he would tear open his chest and crawl out of the hurt. He’d become someone no longer tethered to approval, someone who didn’t have to choose between love and family. The choice was made, though. He couldn’t marry Josephine without forcing her into poverty. He couldn’t inherit his father’s estate unless he allowed Josephine to leave Cadwallader Park.
Forsaking love meant survival for them both.
With a groan, Elias dried his face and staggered to the door. He didn’t want Kitty to find him in such a wretched state. The girl would ask questions. Questions with dreadful answers.
He went to the entrance hall and froze beneath an unlit chandelier.
Josephine stood at the top of the staircase. She gazed down at Elias. Her eyes flickered with understanding as if she knew what had transpired between him and Lord Welby.
She gave a nod, then disappeared behind a wall.
“No, Josephine . . .” Elias sagged against a bannister and struggled for air. He needed her to cry or yell, not accept their fate without a word. He needed her to shed tears and resent him, for any response would prove she’d believed in their relationship.
But she had known this would happen. She knew the rules of society’s game.
All along she had predicted they would lose.
Elias followed the inhabitants of Cadwallader Park outside, where they intended to give Josephine a sober send-off. He stepped onto the gravel drive and pursed his lips as church bells echoed from the parish, as blackbirds soared from the manor’s gables. At least the landscape had enough decency to dull its lurid features. Any warmth from the sun might shatter the wall Elias had built around his emotions. He refused to cry in front of his relatives.
He wouldn’t let his father see him suffer.
Josephine emerged from the house. She lowered a bonnet over her plaited curls and tied its ribbons beneath her chin. The Darlings’ carriage would take her into town, where she could hire a stagecoach. Fortunately, the snow had melted enough to allow transportation.
Lord Welby maintained a stone face as Josephine bade her farewells to Mr. Darling and the household staff. He glanced at Elias as though to ensure his son wouldn’t attempt to interfere. Was he pleased with the outcome of his ultimatum? Did he find satisfaction in separating a young couple, who loved each other, for the good opinions of strangers?
“My son is a fool,” Mrs. Darling said as she pulled Josephine into an embrace. She kissed the girl’s cheek and mustered a smile. “I wish you well, dear.”
Josephine nodded and stepped toward Kitty. She drew a breath, perhaps to hold back tears. “I shall miss you, Kitty Darling.”
“You must visit us again.” Kitty snivelled and reached for Josephine’s gloved hand. She laced their fingers. “Perhaps when your mother returns.”
“Perhaps.” Josephine sighed and moved on to Fitz, who mewled like a babe. “Che
er up, my little pirate.” She crouched in front of him and thumbed his chin. “I am certain Miss Karel will entertain you better than I ever did.”
“She’s not you,” Fitz said with a sniffle.
“Indeed, but you must try to behave for her. Not everyone gets along with pirates.” Josephine straightened, her gaze resting on Elias. She inched toward him and curtsied.
Elias trembled. He wanted to pull her aside and explain why she was better off without him. He wanted to kiss her until his heart ceased its torment.
“Time doesn’t work in our favour, Mr. Welby.” Josephine leaned closer to him and brushed her fingers against his wrist. “Write to me,” she breathed, her eyes welling with tears.
He panted as she walked toward the carriage. Letting her go felt wrong. His veins filled with wrongness. But in a world governed by such things, even the right choices weren’t right.
TWENTY-THREE
JOSIE
* * *
From: Josie De Clare
Sent: Saturday, November 6, 10:22 PM
To: Faith Moretti
Subject: I Told Oliver
Faith, I told him.
Oliver brought firewood to my house this morning. I opened the back door right before he knocked and invited him inside. He looked at me like I was a serial killer, like I planned to lure him indoors so I could tie him to a chair and rip off his fingernails.
After a long stare, he stepped into the kitchen. He dropped his wood near the furnace, then plopped onto a stool without a word. I was nervous. Tremendously so. I kept fiddling with my braid and tugging the flower decals on my jumper.
Dearest Josephine Page 23
