Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  I babbled for several minutes. About what, I’m not sure. All I remember is Oliver’s expression when I said, “You better not say I’m mental after I tell you this. One silly face, and I’ll throw you outside.” Then I told him I was in love with Elias.

  His eyes widened as I mentioned all the similarities between Josephine and me, that I fell head over heels for Elias while reading part 2 of the manuscript. I kept talking. I told Oliver everything—about you, Rashad, Mum and Dad, Stonehill, why I came to Cadwallader.

  Being honest seemed like stripping myself naked. I didn’t want Oliver to see what lived beneath my jokes and ridiculousness. I didn’t want him to see the vulnerable parts of me, because no one has ever liked those parts, that is, besides you.

  Rashad called me vain when I complained about the stretch marks on my thighs. Mum said I was dramatic and wanted attention, hence my frequent breakdowns. Hearing those comments from people I thought loved me . . . They made me seal up like a carnivorous plant. I thought if I shared my true self with someone, they wouldn’t accept me anymore.

  I expected Oliver to leave. I figured he’d laugh and say I had an overactive imagination. But he did none of those things. He just looked at me as if he saw all my expectations and fears, as if he understood. He stood up and wrapped his arms around me. I couldn’t decide if I needed to cry or fake a smile—or let him embrace me for as long as possible.

  Oliver put a kettle on the stove, then spent the next hour asking me questions. Not critical questions. The thoughtful sort—the kind people ask when they want to be a part of your life. That’s when I realized I wasn’t just a girl to him. He didn’t like me for my quirkiness and cute expressions, what might happen if he stayed my friend long enough. He just liked me.

  To know a boy cares like that gives me faith in mankind.

  On an unrelated note, I called it! I knew Lord Welby would give an ultimatum. Please tell me Elias goes after Josephine. He doesn’t play the martyr and sacrifice his happiness for money, right? I mean, no one wants to live in poverty, but isn’t love more important? I did research. In Regency times, a couple needed an income of only two hundred pounds per year to live well.

  Mr. Darling could hire Elias to manage his assets.

  Fine, I’ll stop my commentary and finish reading the book. If it ends with an epilogue of Elias reuniting with Josephine after twenty years only to find she’s married, she named her son after him, or something trite like that, I will throw a royal fit. You said the novel’s ending will help make sense of my situation. I am hoping for a romantic gesture, a dazzling instrumental soundtrack, and a kiss that turns my heart to putty.

  In his letters, Elias invited Lorelai to prolong her stay at Cadwallader. He seemed tempted to propose, which makes zero sense to me because he didn’t love her.

  Yikes, I sound jealous.

  All this will come to an end soon. I have two more letters, one chapter, and an epilogue to read. After your visit, I leave Atteberry and start classes at uni. How will I manage to say good-bye to everyone? More so, how will I muster the courage to bid farewell to Elias?

  I need a miracle now.

  Josie

  P.S. Say a prayer for me. I plan to phone Mum next week.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Faith Moretti

  Sent: Sunday, November 7, 1:46 PM

  To: Josie De Clare

  Subject: Re: I Told Oliver

  Gotta keep this email short, Josie. I’m commuting to the Upper West Side and need to change trains at the next stop. Lots of creeps in my subway car. One guy has a ferret in his hoodie pocket, and it keeps staring at me. A woman is leaning against the doors. Low-key afraid the panels will slide apart and suck her onto the tracks. (Sorry for the violent mental image.)

  For the record, I love Oliver. He sounds perfect for you. Like, if a Build-A-Boyfriend store existed, I would custom-make you an Oliver clone. I know you love Elias, but I’m worried he won’t appear in your house and you’ll be heartbroken.

  I’m worried you will spend your entire life waiting for someone who can’t show up.

  Over the past couple weeks, I’ve thought a lot about love and boys—and other mushy stuff that makes me feel like a middle-school girl at church camp. The breakup put me in a contemplative mood, so much so I’m acing my philosophy class.

  When people go through dark times, they look for crutches to support them. They want to keep themselves from falling apart, so they try to compartmentalize pain or replace it with distractions. Maybe it sounds dumb, but after we stopped talking and your dad passed, I thought if I changed myself, the grief wouldn’t hurt as bad. I found new friends and pretended like your silence didn’t bother me. Still, at the end of the day, I was the same broken person with the same grief, just without the people who really cared about me.

  You seem like yourself again. You have a job, friends, even an adoptive family. I mean, who would’ve thought so much pain could result in good?

  I believe Elias wrote about you. (He needed you as much as you needed him.) But there comes a point in all our lives where we must choose how we’re going to move forward, whether to long for what we don’t have—to lean on our crutches—or embrace what’s already around us.

  There comes a point where we must close the book.

  Next stop is approaching, so I better conclude this longer-than-expected message. I guess my point is . . . I think you already have what you’re looking for, and I want you to see it.

  You could spend your whole life searching for love with your eyes closed.

  Faith

  (Sent from iPhone)

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Monday, November 15, 5:09 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Mum Says Hi

  Faith, I rang Mum earlier today. She answered the phone, which surprised me. I usually leave several voicemails before she gets around to returning my calls. We talked about Dad and the divorce. We fought because I mentioned her lack of parenting. Then she said, “I love you” and “Let’s talk again soon,” and we hung up. The conversation didn’t change much, but I’m glad it happened. I feel this sense of relief, like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.

  Oliver and I ate dinner at the pub last week. We seem back to normal except for the occasional Elias question. I’m chuffed that you fancy him, and you’re right—he is perfect for me. Perhaps if I’d met him years ago, I would’ve had an open heart.

  You’re wrong about Elias, though. Maybe he started as my crutch, but he’s more than that now. I love him. I can’t stop loving him. Do you really want me to shut the book and move on as if all this didn’t matter? I realize we can’t love everyone the same because no two loves are the same. And I know we can love somebody and not end up with them. It’s just . . . I feel like if I let go of Elias even a little, I’m admitting that I’ll never meet him.

  Holding on makes the impossible seem necessary, like God will have to bring Elias and me together because I refuse to loosen my grip.

  I did the same thing with Dad when he was sick. I pretended my life wasn’t falling apart. I waltzed into the hospital every day, wearing outrageous clothes and offensive smiles. I brought cupcakes to the nurses and watched sitcoms with Dad for hours. I acted as if he would get better and the whole cancer mess would fade into the past. I wouldn’t acknowledge the truth because it hurt. I wouldn’t let go, not even when I stood at Dad’s grave.

  To be honest, I think part of me never left that hospital room, and I’ve been waiting all this time for my life to begin again.

  Searching for Elias gives me hope. It makes me wonder if miracles do happen. I mean, what if Dad’s death led me to Cadwallader for a reason? What if someone can love me and not leave? What if “happily ever after” does exist?

  Faith, I’m scared to open my eyes. Atteberry has
given me so much, but I’m afraid of what’ll change or be lost when I stop waiting.

  I’m afraid to close the book.

  Josie

  * * *

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ELIAS

  December 3, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  I did not go to Morpeth. When I awoke this morning, the trip seemed wrong. It created a knot in my stomach, added an extra weight to my legs. I just knew I was not meant to search for you in that village, perhaps because you are not there. Perhaps my soul sensed your distance. Perhaps my heart was afraid to search and not find, to love and not be loved in return.

  Whatever the reason, I remained at Cadwallader. I sent a messenger instead, and I spent the rest of the morning with Lorelai. She wished to help my farmhands herd sheep into the north pasture.

  Confusion plagues me. I tell myself to wait for you, but what good is waiting if you are not approaching? I wish to yell, “Come back to me,” but you have never come at all.

  Oh, I must know you exist in this world. If you are a ghost, then haunt me. If you are a figment of my imagination, do appear once more, for I long to hear your voice. I need evidence of you, so I still hope for news, a day when I can post my letters.

  I hope to receive your response. Truly, if you told me to wait another day, I would wait a lifetime. I would continue to write, for it was through words I found you. Through words, I reach you. And through words, I beg to keep you close.

  But perhaps some loves must remain on the page.

  Nothing could dim my memory of that night. We were destined to meet, for no other encounter has left me so changed. Regardless of what occurs hereafter, I want you to know why I fell in love with you, how that night—those few hours—restored my faith in the future.

  Arthur and I left the Roch estate soon after Father’s death. We travelled from Durham, intending to meet Lorelai at Cadwallader. The journey was most unpleasant. Our driver elected to travel back roads riddled with holes. The carriage bounced. Then a storm came and spooked the horses. We had no other choice but to stop at a public house in Ryton.

  Once we rented a pair of rooms at the inn next door, Arthur and I went to the tavern, ordered beer and meat pies, for such was our habit. He played his violin. I draped a feed sack over my head and danced to earn a few laughs. Something happened to me, though. My vision blurred, followed by a ringing in my ears, then a drumming in my chest. I yanked off the sack and stumbled toward the pub’s exit. I could not breathe. The air seemed thick in my throat.

  My absence went unnoticed. Arthur continued to play his music as patrons laughed and toasted their ale. To this day, I can still hear the fuzzy echo of his merriment accompanied by my jagged breaths, the grating thrum of my heartbeat.

  I turned down a corridor and ended up in a vacant assembly room. The hall was dark, illuminated by ribbons of moonlight that streamed through four large windows.

  Memories struck me like waves breaking against a cliff. I saw Mother’s name engraved on a headstone and Father’s coffin lowering into the earth. I remembered Widow Roch’s veiled face, the hiss of her voice when she whispered, “You got your wish, little parasite.”

  The images harrowed me, and I tried to run from them. I had shut the hall’s door, however, its lock clicking into place. I joggled the handle. It would not turn. Then your voice echoed through the room, saying, “Sir, I do believe you trapped us in here.”

  By sharing this report with you, I wish to prove my attention to even the smallest detail. Indeed, you saw a boy at his wits’ end, but I beheld the most brilliant girl, who became so very dear to me. One glance at your face, and I knew there could be no moving on from you.

  Such an attachment seems illogical, but when has love ever made sense?

  You stood near the farthest window, dressed in a muslin gown embroidered with gold and red threads. The garment surely cost a substantial amount of money and hinted at your high birth. You also wore a crimson redingote with lopsided buttons, obviously handmade, a testament to your unpretentious nature. A bumblebee brooch adorned your lapel, and your hair dangled loosely above your waistline, damp from the rain.

  The sight of you paralyzed me. You had been crying. Tearstains dotted your collar, and your eyes were puffy. Still, even in the dimness, you appeared more interesting than anyone in my acquaintance, not merely beautiful, rather astonishing.

  To be alone with you threatened our reputations, so I turned and pounded the door. You joined my efforts, shouting for help, beating your hands against the panel. After a while, you retreated to the hall’s centre and said, “Aren’t you the man who had a bag on his head?”

  Your question caught me off guard, for it defied all formality. I grinned—I had not done that in months—and told you about my exploits with Arthur. You laughed and introduced yourself as Josephine De Clare. Then you shocked me with a handshake. “What’s your name, Bag Head?” you asked. “And what brings you to the pit of despair?”

  For over a decade, I had kept such feelings a secret even from Arthur. But you were different. You behaved as though we had been friends for years.

  And I loved you for it.

  You moved with a bounce, like the world was a stage and you were the featured performer. Your facial expressions filled me with warmth, for they reflected you, your fun and sincerity. Of course I must also comment on your manner of speaking. You talked so much. The words flew from you. Brilliant words. Hilarious words.

  And I loved you even more.

  We sat on the assembly room’s floor and chatted for ages. I told you everything, about my parents, Eton, and the inheritance. I mentioned my recent panic episodes, and you said you suffered them too. You shared about your father’s passing, your estranged relationship with your mum, and your aspiration to be a schoolteacher rather than a titled lady.

  You confessed that grief had driven you to the assembly room too.

  The hall was enormous compared to us, but it felt like home as I sat across from you. We played noughts and crosses in the floor’s dust. We swapped embarrassing stories, mine being far more humiliating than yours. Then, during our second hour of captivity, you cupped your mouth and shouted for help. No one came to our rescue, for Arthur’s violin drowned out all sounds.

  I stood and offered you my hand, and you flashed a smile. Next thing I knew we were positioned across from each other on that massive dance floor.

  Music filled the chamber, its melody dulled by the closed door. You snickered as we followed the notes into a country dance. Rightly so. We were bloody awful. I bumped into you at least twice. You gave up halfway through the routine and improvised your own steps, twirling, looping your arm around my waist, ruffling my hair when I bowed.

  We endeavoured to make the most noise possible. You stomped and jumped, your heels pounding the floorboards. I tilted back my head and screamed. The sound amused you, to put it mildly, for you laughed so hard, you collapsed into a puddle of skirts.

  The music stopped, yet no one came to our aid. I found out later Arthur stumbled back to the inn in a drunken stupor without me.

  Another hour passed. We sprawled on our backs and gazed at the rafters, imagining constellations in the darkness. The room was ours—our kingdom, where decorum no longer mattered, a gap between your life and mine.

  You said this, and I shall not ever forget it: “Nobody talks about the other loss, the loss that happens within us. We lose people and things, but we also lose parts of ourselves. We grieve those missing parts too. We grieve them, and we grieve us. But I think losing those parts creates space. For newness. For understanding others’ hurts and welcoming them into our free spaces. There is no shame in brokenness, Elias. Maybe we met tonight because God knew we needed to be broken together. Maybe wholeness comes not from healing, but from being together.”

  I slid my hand across the floorboards and touched your wrist. You laced our fingers, your grip firm with resolve. At that moment propriety did not exist. Neither did Widow Roch or t
he inheritance. Everything faded into a dark room where I sat alone with you, holding your hand, surrendering the weight I had been carrying for years.

  The proprietor liberated us around midnight. He and another gentleman managed to break open the door. Apparently your travel companion finally noticed your absence when she visited your room at the inn. She went to the pub and demanded a search.

  Our parting happened in an instant. You were there beside me, and then you were out the door. We stood face-to-face before distance, timing, and whatever else separated us. I held you in my arms, but then I made a mistake. I hesitated. I let you walk away, and I told myself we would see each other again.

  Arthur and I departed Ryton the next morning. I asked the innkeeper to give you a message, but he said you departed before dawn. And such was our good-bye.

  You were my bright spot in a dark place, Josephine. I fell in love with you then, for you were everything I lacked—a sense of belonging, the freedom to feel and break and laugh regardless. We were young. We are still young.

  But I shall love you always.

  The past few months have forced me to evaluate what I desire from life. No longer am I lost, for I have friends and a home to call my own. Having met you, I feel whole for the first time.

  Perhaps meeting you was enough.