I started crying before I read the markers.
The inscription said Sir Elias Catesby Roch: Beloved Husband, Father, and Friend. He was buried with Lorelai Roch, his wife of fifty-five years.
Oliver told me Elias married Lorelai and moved to the coast soon after their wedding. They had five children, twenty-one grandchildren. Elias lived for eighty-six years.
He grew old without me.
Maybe I should be happy for him. I mean, he got what he wanted—a home, people who loved him, a full life. I’m not happy, though. Quite the opposite. I’m miserable because I know he didn’t need my love as much as I need his. I’m miserable because he spent his life with someone who wasn’t me. Am I the worst person ever to wish Lorelai had fallen off a cliff?
I knew this day would come. Even when I sat in that hallway and prayed Elias would find me, I knew we wouldn’t meet on this side of eternity. Yes, I’m glad he didn’t wait. (I’ll tell myself that until I believe it.) I wasn’t meant to end up with him but to know him.
Knowing the right person changes everything.
Elias met Josephine De Clare. Perhaps she was real, and their encounter was nothing more than serendipity. Regardless, Elias brought so much good into my life. We didn’t get our happily ever after moment, but our love won just the same. It won because we tried.
Oh, what I would give for a kiss good-bye.
The final chapter was cliché, and I liked every bit of it. I don’t see how it makes sense of my situation, though. Elias hasn’t ridden through Cadwallader’s gates or swept me off my feet.
Maybe I’ll gain clarity once I read the epilogue and his final letter.
The novel gave me a life with Elias. In those pages I belonged to him, and regardless of time and place, I’m confident he was mine. Perhaps we never stop loving someone. We just learn to move forward. To live without them because of them.
Perhaps we let go to hold on.
I must start the next chapter of my life. No more crutches. I’m on my two feet. A little wobbly but standing.
Oliver invited me to go into town with him and his grandparents tonight, so I need to mend my blotchy face. In conclusion . . . I think I’m ready to close the book.
Josie
* * *
TWENTY-SEVEN
ELIAS
January 1, 1822
Dearest Josephine,
This message shall end my correspondence, for I have decided to quit Atteberry and forsake these letters. I will not finish my novel, nor will I continue the pursuit of you. All my words shall remain in Cadwallader’s study, where they will gather dust and pay tribute to the redemption that occurred. Meeting you changed me. Writing to you added to my wholeness.
Perhaps these letters brought you to me despite our distance.
Forgive my abysmal penmanship. I find this task more than difficult. Never would I have thought myself capable of parting with you by choice. Indeed, I believed our lives so intimately woven together, fated to result in more than one evening at a public house. My soul was made for your soul. A love like that cannot be forgotten.
Lorelai visited my study not long ago. She perused the bookshelves and insisted I hang her portrait of me over the fireplace. When I agreed, she mentioned the farmhands, how she wished to give art lessons to their children. She asked if we could host a party for the estate’s workers to thank them. At that moment I realized I loved her in earnest, for she thought of others, she found joy in the simplest things. I understood my love for her was gentle and steadfast, one of admiration. Maybe the revelation would have come sooner if I had welcomed it.
I married her yesterday. The ceremony was held at a local church. Lady Seymore, Edward and Mary Rose, and my household staff were in attendance. Lorelai wore a white dress and flowers in her hair. Afterward everyone came to Cadwallader for an extravagant breakfast.
We leave for the coast tomorrow. I purchased a property with ocean views and a cottage, a house much cosier than Cadwallader Manor. Lorelai and I fancy the idea of painting seascapes and tutoring young people. We wish to open a conservatoire. Mr. O’Connor even offered to put in a good word with the Royal Academy’s board.
“Farewell” seems crass, but I must conclude this pursuit so I can focus on the present. Not all loves end with together. Some last only a season or a day, but they matter—they have purpose. After everything that has happened, I believe the miracle I needed was not to find you.
It was to know you in the first place.
You are rare, my darling friend. So effortlessly yourself. Wherever you go in the world, I am certain people will adore your everything. Let others accept your brokenness like you accepted mine. Find someone who loves you the way I love you. And perhaps one day, after we conclude our separate journeys, I shall hold you in my arms and whisper against your lips, “My dearest Josephine, you were worth every second.”
For a moment with you, I wait an eternity.
Yours ever,
Elias
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NOVEL
Elias and Josephine got married with haste. They resided at the De Clares’ cottage, where Josephine schooled local children for a modest wage. Elias accepted a job from Mr. Heyworth and worked as a clerk. Although the position required much travel, Elias managed to spend half the year in Morpeth and help Josephine maintain the property.
Two years after their union, Josephine bore a daughter, whom they named Emilia. An undeniable beauty, the child possessed her father’s curls and mother’s face. She grew fast like a beanstalk, or so Elias claimed. He could hardly believe his daughter’s height.
No family seemed more content with little than the Welbys. They found pleasure in their simple routine. Elias and Josephine took Emilia on long walks across the countryside. They gardened, read stories by the fire, and attended church each Sunday. For five years they were satisfied with their income of one hundred pounds.
And then they received a great deal more.
“You look comfortable over there,” Josephine said as she laboured in the garden. She yanked weeds and pressed seeds into the tilled soil.
Elias sprawled on the lawn while Emilia crawled over his chest. He lifted her small frame above his head, smiling when she laughed and squealed. “Mrs. Welby, I’m quite at my leisure.”
“I could use a strong man to assist me.” Josephine removed her wicker hat and dabbed the sweat from her brow, replacing it with dirt smears. She leaned onto her heels and watched Elias sway Emilia back and forth. “She may get sick on your face if you’re not careful.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Elias said with a snicker. He rose from the ground and propped Emilia on his hip. “Come fetch her. I’ll relieve you.”
Josephine left the garden and moved toward them. She wiped her hands on her stained apron, then extended her arms to Emilia. “Would you fancy a jam tart?”
“Do you know how to make a jam tart?” Elias grinned. His wife struggled to bake and cook, for no one had taught her the skills. Mrs. Capers visited them once to offer instruction, but neither Elias nor Josephine could master the art.
Most of their meals consisted of stew and sandwiches.
“You think you’re so clever,” Josephine said with a scoff. “I do, in fact, know how to make a jam tart.” She grabbed Emilia and pecked the toddler’s cheek.
“Forgive me. How could I ever doubt you?” Elias hugged Josephine’s waist and kissed the back of her neck. He closed his eyes to memorize the moment, how a warm breeze drifted over the hillside, the bleats of sheep as they milled about the pasture.
“Look. Someone’s here.” Josephine patted his wrist and gestured to a horse and rider now racing toward the cottage. She bounced Emilia to keep her calm, the child’s dark curls bobbing in the wind. “Were you expecting company—”
“Excuse me. Are you Elias Welby?” the rider yelled once he reached the property’s gate.
“Yes. How may I help you?” Elias approached the man with caution. He and J
osephine did not receive callers except for the vicar, schoolchildren, and on occasion Kitty Darling, who lived nearby with her officer husband.
The rider dismounted and greeted Elias with a nod. “I bring unfortunate news, sir. Your father, Lord Welby, expired a week ago.”
Elias flinched, his chest aching with an old pain. He hadn’t spoken to his father in years, not since he married Josephine. “Do give my condolences to his widow.”
“Sir, he named you his heir,” the messenger said. “You’re to inherit his estate.”
“What?” Josephine hurried to Elias’s side, their daughter jouncing on her hip. She gawked at the messenger as though he’d sprouted horns. “Are you sure?”
“Indeed, madam. You may occupy Windermere Hall whenever you please.” The man smiled and tipped his topper. “Good day to you both.”
“No, no, there must’ve been a mistake.” Elias looked at Josephine, his mouth agape. “This cannot be possible. Father disinherited me.”
Josephine laughed and touched his face, her eyes welling with tears. “You deserve this good thing,” she whispered. “After so much loss, you deserve to know what it’s like to have.”
He kissed the inside of her wrist. “I have plenty.”
They arrived at Windermere Hall a fortnight later, after Widow Welby moved into a separate residence. Mrs. Capers and Anne joined the household staff. Emilia grew lovelier with each passing day, her countenance near identical to her mother’s.
No family seemed more content with much than the Welbys. They found pleasure in their long walks across the countryside and intimate gatherings. They lived bright and waking, determined not to repeat their relatives’ mistakes. And at the end they were together.
They were happy.
And they wanted for nothing.
TWENTY-NINE
JOSIE
June 8
Dear Elias,
Thanks for your letters. I found them at the right time, when my life was a disaster zone. A lot has changed since then. I attend a university in London and plan to move to Cadwallader full-time once I graduate. Rest assured I’ll take care of your house. I want to turn it into a museum, perhaps teach at Atteberry’s primary school.
My best friend moved to Italy a few months ago. I met her in Milan, and we drove a caravan down the coast. Oh, I wrote a biography about you. It’s not published yet. I hope to see it in print before the museum opens. Who knows? Maybe your life will be a bestseller.
On a different note, I found someone who loves me like you loved me. He goes to school in Scotland, but we met here in Atteberry. He’s perfect for me, always laughing and acting ridiculous. He’ll be a doctor soon. I love him, and I love you.
There’s so much I would like to tell you, but since you won’t read this letter, I will do my best not to ramble. I suppose I just want to say thanks for giving me a safe place. Your home became my home. Because of you, I stopped waiting.
See you someday.
Yours ever,
Josephine De Clare
P.S. I’ll put this letter in your desk drawer for safekeeping.
June 12
Dearest Josie,
When thoughts are inked on paper, they stand up and say to the world they’re important enough to be preserved. To be worthy of something a person can hold.
You deserve important words, so I propose we begin a correspondence. I’ll keep sliding letters under your back door until you return to London. Write back. Put your messages in the gorse alcove. I’ll leave an old biscuit tin to act as a postbox.
It’s time I tell you the story of why I wrote the rest of Elias’s novel. I need to explain on paper because I cannot look at you without joking. One smile from you, and I turn into a clown. All seriousness fades into trolley races, bad dance moves, and singing at the top of our lungs.
That morning I brought firewood to Cadwallader. I’ll never forget the first time I saw you. Blimey, you were a mess, standing in the kitchen, waving a sword over your head. You wore fuzzy slippers. Your hair was matted and dyed a weird pinkish brown color.
And that was it for me.
From that moment, I lived for your chaos, how you phoned me to complain after talking with your mum, the way you screamed when I took you for a ride on Pop’s motorcycle. I wanted to debate with you about movies, tease you for not cleaning up after yourself. I liked assisting you with renovations because you got this determined look on your face as if painting was a life-or-death mission. My every laugh had something to do with you. Still does.
You pushed me out of my comfort zone. You got on with my grandparents so well. Better than well. I’m convinced they fell in love with you before I did. Speaking of which . . .
I realized I loved you, like very much head over heels, that night we watched Dracula in Pop and Granny’s living room. You fell asleep on my shoulder with chocolate smeared in the corner of your mouth. You wore my blue hoodie, the one you stole after I misplaced it in your kitchen. And as I held you (while Dracula escorted a bloke up a cobwebbed staircase), I made a promise to myself to love you even if you never loved me back.
Your search for the end of Elias’s book presented an opportunity. I decided to finish the novel because it’s what you needed. During secondary school I dabbled in creative writing. My English teacher and I were close, so I read all the assigned classics. Did you have a similar experience? For some reason it’s like every interesting person I meet was friends with their English teacher.
Anyway, I spent a solid month in my bedroom. I came up with the worst excuses as to why I couldn’t hang out with you. Remember when I said I got the sheep flu? Yeah, there’s no such thing as sheep flu, and shearing isn’t half as difficult as I made it out to be.
Once I finished the book, my history-buff mate helped me polish the writing to match Elias’s voice. I didn’t want to give you the chapters, not really, because I knew you would believe they were from Elias and you’d friend-zone me even more.
And because I thought my writing was literal rubbish. No pun intended.
Watching you fall for him was the hardest part. I almost told you the truth after the Halloween party, but then I remembered the promise I made to myself. You were my best friend, and being friends was great. I didn’t want to jeopardize that.
My inspiration for such angsty martyrdom came from Elias. We both resolved to love the person we didn’t think could love us back. We prepared to watch that person live without us. And look how it all panned out. Not quite as we planned. Not horrible either.
To be honest, I thought you’d be disappointed if you knew I had written the chapters. You didn’t seem to like me like that, but I liked you like that, and the novel made it clear Elias liked Josephine like that. So yeah, of course, you should’ve liked Elias. Made sense.
How in blazes can I compare to Sir Elias Catesby Roch?
I write all this not to sound insecure or pathetic, but to tell you I’m convinced everything—from start to finish to beyond that—was worth it. Elias set a high standard, and I don’t plan to compete with him. We both love Josephine De Clare. He loved Josephine first. I aim to love you much longer.
For that reason, I can consider Elias a friend.
So many people waste time waiting for good things to happen to them. But sometimes we need to make good things happen. And when we finally start doing that, we often see there were good things in our lives all along.
I suppose I finished the novel to show you the good. I thought if you found hope in your own happy ending, then perhaps you’d fancy me. Of course, that seemed unlikely then. I just wanted to see you happy, to hear you laugh and dream about the future and know people loved you regardless of where they were in time. You’re loved. That’s all I really wanted to say.
You have a story, Josie De Clare. A flipping wonderful story. And I want to be a part of it for as long as you let me, because this—what’s happening between us—is better than fiction. Real. This is real. Us sharing earbuds on train commutes
. Going for seaside picnics with the knitting club. Staying on the phone well past midnight to chat about school and work and Pop’s recent obsession with Harry Styles.
After reading Elias’s work, I’ve decided there aren’t ends, just beginnings. And I want every beginning in the world with you.
How’s that for my first attempt at a love letter? Shall I write more? I can’t be Elias Roch, but I’m here, and I choose you.
What do you say? Are you up for more of this?
Oliver
June 13
Dearest Oliver . . .
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
(Credits)
Although novels don’t end like films, I wish to roll credits and lead a standing ovation for the people who made this book possible.
Jesus. You are the reason I write. Thank You for not giving me what I wanted when I wanted it. Thank You for saying no in preparation for Your best yes. This book is a testimony to Your goodness, faithfulness, and unmerited, unrestrained love. For the rest of my days, I’ll remember Bethel.
Kim Carlton, my brilliant editor and friend, who brought this story to life. You deserve your name on the cover for how much you guided this book. Elias and Oliver are who they are because of you.
Erin Healy, for magnifying Elias’s and Josie’s voices. You encouraged me more than you know.
Laura Wheeler, the mastermind behind this book’s design. Amanda, Kerri, and the rest of my Thomas Nelson/HarperCollins family. Words cannot express my gratefulness for you. Thanks for believing in my stories and welcoming me with open arms.
Dearest Josephine Page 26
