Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  My letters may yet find their way to you. If so, please heed this advice. Forgive your mum for her neglect. Let your pain yield to brighter days so you can flourish wherever you are planted. And live always with the wind against your cheeks and buds of gorse tucked into your hair.

  Live always, and never forget where you belong.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  December 20, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  The messenger did not find you in Morpeth. He visited the De Clare estate and learned a Josephine—perhaps you—had returned to London. He brought me an address. Now I must decide whether to post my letters or put an end to this pursuit.

  Breathing comes easily to me now. I no longer require a nurse or cane, for I am in good health. I ride Willoughby and take walks with Lorelai. Our relationship seems mended. At present, she plays the pianoforte downstairs while Mrs. Dunstable hums in the annex.

  I have not proposed marriage. However, the notion seems less foreign now. Weeks ago Lorelai said people cannot love everyone the same, for no two loves are the same. I must agree. The affection I have for Lorelai is unlike what I feel for you, but it is here, within me.

  She has been my constant friend since our arrival at Cadwallader.

  A groundskeeper made known the bog outside of Atteberry has frozen over, causing everyone within a five-league radius to flock the glassy banks. I invited Lorelai and the household staff on an expedition to the quag. They seemed eager for recreation. At this time of year, my estate offers little amusement. One can find themselves quite bored.

  Lorelai purchased skates from a village shop and distributed them among the staff. We took a carriage and sleigh across the countryside, a light snowfall adding to our enjoyment. Mrs. Dunstable made us all sing a chantey. The cook distributed fairy cakes, potted paste sandwiches, and syllabub flavoured with nutmeg. A festive outing, indeed.

  We reached the bog around mid-afternoon and joined the crowd of people on its shore. At first I refused to skate, for I am not versed in the art. Lorelai persuaded me otherwise. She helped me onto the ice and held my arm as I wobbled across the frozen surface.

  She glided in circles until snow plastered her fur stole. Then we locked arms with Mrs. Dunstable and the farmhand, and we skated across the bog in a single line. I only fell thrice.

  My knees and backside are moderately blue.

  Life has not been gentle with me, Josephine. I have lost a great deal over the past nineteen years. Through it all, I have learned to appreciate the wonderful days. I want more of them, to know what it is like to live alongside people who care about me.

  Words provide splendid company, but they cannot love.

  Perhaps I shall post the letters.

  Elias

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE NOVEL

  It had been four months since Josephine left Cadwallader Park. The Darlings remained at the estate, for its seclusion offered haven from Sebastian and Widow De Clare’s scandal. Of course, society grew bored with the affair and substituted it with more relevant headlines. All impropriety seemed to have been forgiven or forgotten, whichever came first.

  And the memory of the girl damaged by the indecent elopement fell by the wayside.

  Elias did not witness the reinstatement of normalcy. He returned to Windermere Hall soon after Josephine’s departure and occupied himself with Lord Welby’s assignments. He had only resided at the house a fortnight before Joshua Heyworth came to call.

  Mr. Heyworth practiced law in Durham. A revered barrister, Heyworth had managed to grow his income to thirteen thousand pounds per year, an accomplishment which earned him notice from the country’s nobility.

  The barrister took a liking to Elias and invited him to join his travels, for he found the road dull without intelligent conversation. Elias agreed. He wished to learn from Mr. Heyworth in hopes of securing a position with the man’s practice. An income of more than one hundred forty pounds would allow him to renew his proposal.

  Josephine might resent him, though. He had not written to her despite her request. Whenever he lifted a pen, his mind went blank. He could not muster a cordial greeting without balling the stationery and tossing it to the floor.

  Elias despised himself for letting her go. Over time the self-loathing poisoned him like strychnine, withering his body into someone he didn’t recognize. His skin looked whiter than porcelain. His eyes appeared matte and lifeless. Perhaps his worst alteration was his expression—a chiselled grimness much like Lord Welby’s.

  His father swore he would forget Josephine, for his heart was young and malleable. Elias considered such remarks a grave insult. He could not forget her any more than he could forget a knife in his side. Indeed, he was young, but even the young felt pain.

  And they felt it the longest.

  Josephine figured prominently in his dreams, her bumblebee dress fanning around her legs as she twirled across a dance floor, as snow drifted from a fictitious sky. Elias craved the sight of her face. He could live without her, but he wished not to, for living without her was like living in a world without colour, like eating a meal without taste.

  She was his world’s vibrancy.

  Before his departure from Cadwallader Park, Mrs. Capers told him prosperity involved a balance of love and fortune. Neither element possessed in isolation provided the least bit of satisfaction. Elias realized Lord Welby’s ultimatum had crippled him. He accepted that he and Josephine would not secure prosperity without each other.

  Money would feed their stomachs while their hearts grew thin.

  The Mowbray Family invited Mr. Heyworth and Elias to dine at their home in Consett. News of the barrister’s travels went ahead of him, prompting gentlefolk to offer their generous reception. Such invitations seemed a relief. Elias preferred to take more delicate meals with others who would engage Heyworth, for the food of public houses unsettled his stomach, and he could no longer devise new topics of discussion.

  One more conversation about King George IV would surely bore Elias to death.

  “Mr. Welby, what brings you to Consett?” Mrs. Mowbray asked. She perched on a chaise lounge and sipped ratafia from a crystal goblet. Her milky complexion gave her a youthful appearance, quite unsimilar to her husband, who showed premature age.

  Elias straightened in his seat. He glanced around the drawing room—a chamber decorated with Chinese wallpaper and oil paintings. A portrait of Mr. Mowbray hung over the fireplace. Its artist had taken liberty to give the man an athletic build.

  Heyworth answered for him. “I hate to travel alone, so Mr. Welby offered to accompany me. I am a social creature. Without conversation, I go quite mad.” He lingered near the hearth and puffed on a cigar. “Welby, you must tell Mr. and Mrs. Mowbray about our adventures in Sunderland. I believe they would find your account of the assembly rooms quite amusing.”

  “Yes, do tell.” Mr. Mowbray sat next to his wife, the panels of his waistcoat gaping to make room for his large gut. “We like to hear about society, especially when it’s a bit wicked.”

  “Perhaps another time.” Elias massaged his temples, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes. Months of travel had left him unwell and put him in a distasteful mood. He could not prevent his rudeness. It seemed to pour from him like water from a broken spigot.

  Knocks rattled the front door, followed by indistinct chatter within the entrance hall. Elias recognized the voices. He tensed, his heart racing.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Welby. We invited your cousin and his wife to join us,” Mrs. Mowbray said. “I had the pleasure of meeting the new Mrs. Darling in town this morning. Of course, I felt the need to extend a dinner invitation.”

  “Oh, Elias . . .” Sebastian froze in the drawing room’s threshold with Widow De Clare on his arm. He wore a velvet frock coat, his cravat tied into an intricate knot.

  Elias lurched to his feet. He hadn’t seen Sebastian or Widow De Clare since discovering them in Sebastian’s chambers.

&nbs
p; “Blazes, what a nice surprise. I thought you’d returned to Windermere Hall,” Sebastian said through a forced smile. “Are you not going to congratulate us?”

  Pressure tightened Elias’s chest until he panted like a horse. He couldn’t decide whether to speak or tackle his cousin to the floor.

  “I am pleased to see you in good health, cousin,” Elias said as the couple greeted their hosts. He clenched his fists, his fingernails cutting into his palms. “Are you staying nearby?”

  “No, we’re passing through.” Sebastian held Elias’s gaze as though daring him to misspeak. He cleared his throat. “We’re traveling to Cadwallader. My bride wishes us to settle down for the season.” His speech exuded confidence and civility, yet he seemed nervous. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Colour drained from his face.

  “Congratulations to you, Mr. and Mrs. Darling,” Heyworth said, perhaps to ease the tension. “I trust you had a nice honeymoon.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Widow De Clare nodded, her cheeks flushed. She removed a brisé fan from her reticule and batted the air beneath her chin. “London was most agreeable.”

  “We hope to purchase a town home near Hyde Park,” Sebastian said, his stare fixed on Elias. He escorted his wife to a sofa and commented on the Mowbrays’ fine rooms. Both newlyweds donned expensive fashion, proof they likely spent the past few months promenading through city parks and taking afternoon refreshments at the Tea Gardens.

  They would enjoy such grandiose activities for as long as God permitted. Sebastian would flaunt his impish wife at dinner parties. Widow De Clare would live in luxury while her spinster daughter grew old within a cottage, invisible to the upper class.

  Elias lowered onto his chair and studied the floor’s scroll pattern. He trembled with a rage so complete, it almost seemed to revive him. He wanted to shove Sebastian against a wall. He wanted to yell until his voice went hoarse.

  Mrs. Mowbray invited her guests into the dining room, where footmen served more than seven dishes. Everyone took their seats and engaged in polite conversation. Sebastian spoke of his and the widow’s elopement, their experiences in London, and plans to have children. No one appeared fazed by the circumstance, that a couple who had damaged their families with scandal now lived as distinguished members of society.

  “Does your daughter reside at Cadwallader Park, Mrs. Darling?” Heyworth asked.

  Widow De Clare dabbed her mouth with a napkin. She glanced at Elias, perhaps worried he’d share the intimate details of Josephine’s departure. “No, she resides in Morpeth.”

  “Such a modest place for a young lady,” Mr. Mowbray said. “Is she married?”

  “Do you mean to interrogate our guests?” Mrs. Mowbray laughed. Her eyes flashed a warning, as if she knew what had occurred between Sebastian and Josephine.

  “No, she is not married.”

  Elias stabbed his fork into a square of cheese. He couldn’t eat. His stomach churned. He bunched his napkin beneath the table.

  “Our situation was most unfortunate,” Sebastian said as a footman refilled his wineglass. “Of course, I feel tremendous guilt for breaking my engagement to Josephine.”

  “Consider yourself lucky.” Mr. Mowbray winked and raised his cup in a toast.

  “Indeed. Why marry the copy when you can have the original?” Heyworth chuckled. He turned in his chair to face the widow. “Mrs. Darling, you are from the heavens.”

  She mustered a polite smile. “I must confess my daughter was not keen to marry Sebastian. She thought him too bold a person. I daresay I did her a favour.”

  “How noble of you,” Sebastian said with a laugh. He took a bite of roast beef, then addressed the table. “It is true Josephine showed more affection for my cousin than me.” His grin shrank to a smirk, one that stripped all gallantry from his expression.

  Heyworth looked at Elias. “Is it true? Did you return Miss De Clare’s interest?”

  Elias clenched his jaw, anger boiling within him. He glared at Sebastian with as much venom as he could summon.

  “Indeed. He was madly in love with her,” Sebastian said with a snicker, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Perhaps he wished to lure attention from his misconduct. “Yes, my cousin seemed quite enthralled with Josephine at the Christmas ball—”

  “That’s enough,” Elias yelled. He slammed his palms onto the table and stood, his movements rattling the chinaware. “You are a man without honour. I am ashamed to share blood with you.”

  “For heaven’s sake.” Heyworth scoffed. “Calm yourself.”

  “I mean it.” Elias gestured to Sebastian and Widow De Clare. “You sit here unbothered by your misdeeds—your blatant treachery—while Josephine suffers. Where is the justice?”

  Sebastian sipped from his glass, the wine staining his upper lip. All along, he had known about Elias’s feelings for Josephine, and he’d never said a word. What cruelty possessed him? How did he find joy in the misfortunes of others?

  “I want no part of this.” Elias dropped his napkin onto the table and raised his hands in surrender. He stormed out of the room, each step like a breath of fresh air.

  “Welby!” Heyworth rushed from the dining room and followed Elias to the entrance hall. “Stop right there. Where do you think you’re going?”

  Elias snatched his coat from a hook and opened the front door. He looked at Heyworth, a sigh breezing from his mouth. “Tell my father I’ve gone to Morpeth.”

  The choice was simple. Elias would go after Josephine regardless of her distance. He would find her and beg her to forgive him. No fortune was worth their separation. He would discover a way to provide without his inheritance. He’d labour for Mr. Heyworth or ask his uncle for work. He would do whatever necessary to build a life with Josephine, for time hadn’t groomed him to take hold of his dream. It had prepared him to give it away for someone better.

  He should’ve made this decision months ago, before Lord Welby presented an ultimatum, before Josephine bid her good-byes. He once thought happiness required many things. Now he realized it needed only one.

  Elias rode all night, his back and shoulders aching from the strain. He reached Morpeth as dawn painted a blue haze across the horizon.

  A shepherd directed him to the De Clares’ cottage—a small property located a league from town. The house sat on a hillside, surrounded by tended gardens and pastureland. Wisteria clung to its stone walls, and smoke curled from its chimneys.

  The cottage was a far cry from the hovel Elias had imagined. Mr. Darling and Lord Welby’s stipend must’ve allowed Josephine to hire a groundskeeper. Would she give up the financial aid for Elias? He would promise to weed the garden and prune the rosebushes. He’d attempt to cook meals, chop wood, do whatever task was needed.

  Elias dismounted once he reached the property’s fence. He opened its gate and walked his horse up a grassy path, the morning dew soaking his pants legs. He should have tidied his appearance, for the long ride had left him in a sorry state. His clothes were dishevelled. His breath tasted stale, and his nostrils tingled with his own musk.

  No lady would find him the least bit appealing under the circumstances.

  He stopped in front of the cottage, where chickens meandered and clucked for their feed. His heart raced when Josephine appeared in an upstairs window. She peeked between curtains, her eyes widening at the sight of him.

  Love was not based on whether the right girl ended up with the right boy. Love just was—was there in one’s chest, stubborn and certain. But sometimes the right girl did end up with the right boy. Sometimes their love won.

  Josephine emerged from the house moments later, dressed in nightclothes and her mother’s tartan. She gazed at Elias as if she couldn’t decide whether he was real or a dream. She approached him with careful steps, her bare feet imprinting the grass.

  Elias dropped the horse’s reins and moved forward. He looked at her, and he loved her. That was all he wanted to be—the boy who saw a girl and never stopped seeing her, the boy whose lov
e never grew stagnant.

  She halted at a safe distance. Her brow furrowed as she regarded Elias’s appearance. Indeed, she was beautiful even at this ungodly hour. Her chestnut hair tumbled over her shoulder in a single braid. Her complexion seemed to shimmer like dew.

  “You’ll lose everything,” she whispered. The words drifted from her mouth like a gasp as if she knew Elias’s plans. She read him like a book.

  He rushed forward and drew her face against his. He kissed her like it was the end of the world, and he didn’t mind if she was his last breath. He kissed her for every month they had been apart. He kissed her for every I miss you and I love you he had wanted to say. If they could hold each other now, after long waits and countless mistakes, then surely anything was possible.

  Her kiss was the only home he would ever need.

  Josephine hugged Elias’s neck as he lifted her off the ground. She laughed and kissed him again, her sigh washing all doubt from Elias’s body. In that second, his world consisted of her hands on his jaw, her lips fused with his lips, an entire universe freeing him from his prison of shadows. The day was bright. He was seen.

  And she was everything.

  TWENTY-SIX

  JOSIE

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Thursday, November 18, 4:53 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: What Happened to Elias Roch

  Faith, I know what happened. Oliver’s friend sent us the information about Elias. You should be glad we aren’t FaceTiming because I can’t stop blubbering. My keyboard is wet, and my face is pink and blotchy. Nan won’t even come near me.

  Earlier today Oliver and I drove outside of Atteberry to a graveyard set upon a hill. I saw the headstones, and I couldn’t breathe. I refused to go near them until Oliver hugged me and said I needed to know the end of the story. He led me to a plot surrounded by gorse.