Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  Norman seems quite a character. He and his wife, Martha, take care of Dad’s estate and inhabit a cottage on the property. One word to describe them: adorable. Norman served in the navy, then became a farmer once he retired. He dons a wool jumper and navy cap. Martha, on the other hand, resembles Headmistress Poston. Same bobbed grey hair and motherly smile.

  The landscape here projects a vibrant gloom—beautiful and melancholy. Every coppice and patch of grass blazes green, and the overcast sky washes the world with a blue haze.

  Did you consider London a dreary place? I used to love the city. Dad took me for picnics in Kensington Gardens. Once a month we had cream tea at a shop near Windsor. It must’ve rained then. But I only noticed the dampness when he got sick.

  Mum doesn’t understand. Granted, she left after the divorce and refused to join our outings. Oh, I need to tell you!! Dad’s lawyers want to sell the town home. I won’t let them. That house means the world to me—to us. (Your pyjamas are still in the guest room.)

  Going to FaceTime you after I use the loo.

  Josie

  (Sent from iPhone)

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Monday, June 20, 11:50 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: Cadwallader Manor

  I saw your Instagram story, Faith. I know you’re watching television with your dog. Do you like Netflix more than your friend? LOL

  Whatever. I’ll tell you about Cadwallader Manor, and I’ll be extra wordy because I’m petty and have nothing better to do.

  The house stands at the end of a gravel drive, built in the Gothic Revival style with buttresses and stone walls. Do you recall Thornfield Hall from Jane Eyre? That’s where I now reside—within an eerie manor surrounded by moorland and fog.

  I asked Norman about the estate and why Dad kept it a secret. This is what he told me:

  Dad purchased the property at a private auction while I was at Stonehill. He planned to renovate the house so we could use it on holidays. But his cancer ended those dreams. Maybe he thought he’d recover and finish the project. Maybe not telling me was his way of holding on to that hope. Whatever his reason, he intended this place for us.

  I’m not sure what to think or feel right now. To be here and see evidence of Dad—his sweater on the coatrack, the sparkling water in the fridge—reminds me of things I don’t want to remember. Losing him. Getting swept away in the chaos that followed.

  A few months of quiet will do me some good. Maybe I’ll finish the renovations and have furniture appraised to complete Dad’s project. He wanted me at Cadwallader. I cling to that truth now, while I huddle near my bedroom’s fireplace with a cup of Earl Grey and an oil lamp. (The manor has electricity only on its main floor.)

  Of course, Dad bought the creepiest fixer-upper in all of England. Too many spiders and drafts that seem to come from nowhere. I wish you were here to see it.

  I wish you were here.

  Email back as soon as possible! Your communication keeps me sane and less spooked by the creak of old wood and wind against shutters.

  BTW, I planned to give you a virtual tour of the house. You missed out.

  Josie

  (Sent from iPhone)

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Faith Moretti

  Sent: Tuesday, June 21, 12:23 PM

  To: Josie De Clare

  Subject: Re: Cadwallader Manor

  Josie, if you don’t respond, I’ll assume you froze to death in that creepy mansion, and my day will be ruined. JOSIE, RESPOND ASAP!!

  Your description of Atteberry—although beautiful—makes the place sound lonely. I’m a full supporter of rest and self-discovery, but isolation can sometimes cause more problems. Please don’t join a knitting club. But if you do, promise you won’t become a hermit who collects yarn and wanders the moors and dyes her hair pink. Geez, I get nervous just thinking about you in that village with only Norman and Martha to keep you company. I mean, they’re better than Rashad.

  Pretty much everyone is better than Rashad.

  I must know more about your first night at Cadwallader. Any ghost sightings? Or even better—did Mr. Rochester call on you? Oh, I wish I could visit and help renovate the house.

  Your dad would have wanted you to finish his project, though.

  OMG, your mom and lawyers better not sell the townhouse. That place belongs to you—your dad said so. Remember when we tried to slide down the laundry chute and you got stuck? I was so scared your dad would be angry at me when he saw your feet dangling out of the shaft, and I couldn’t believe it when he just laughed and slathered you with vegetable oil to get you out. Didn’t that stain the clothes?

  I miss him too. He treated me like a daughter, and I needed that. I needed a family during my time at Stonehill. Did you ever hear about the skirt? During one of our weekends at your house, your dad overheard us talking about how I’d ripped my uniform. He went to the store and bought a plaid skirt, then put it in the guest room for me to find. He didn’t say a word about it, but I knew what he’d done.

  You both mean the world to me.

  So yeah, I understand your reason for visiting Cadwallader Manor. Loss changes our perspective of the world, exposes its instability, and leaves us to gather the pieces of our broken selves and stick them back together. Your dad must’ve known that, Josie. Maybe he bought the house to give you a safe place—somewhere you could heal.

  Explore the estate and let me know what you find.

  Faith

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Tuesday, June 21, 4:01 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Weird Finds at Cadwallader

  Good news, Faith! I didn’t perish in the night and turn to ice. The fireplace warmed my bedroom to a comfortable temperature. I slept beneath a mound of quilts and didn’t wake until Norman led his sheep past my window. Neither ghosts nor Mr. Rochester paid me a visit, which probably disappoints you. I can, however, report horrific texts from Rashad, but I won’t waste time—or words—telling you about them.

  I took your advice and explored the estate. First, I ravaged the kitchen and put together a breakfast of toast, eggs, and tea—like a genuine domestic. Martha left homemade butter and clotted cream in the fridge to liven up my meals. She even filled the pantry with canned soups. (I tell you this to prompt a craving for British food so you’ll return to me.)

  The weather seemed decent enough, so I took a pair of work boots from the cellar and went outdoors. I followed a stone wall around the property, then chased sheep onto the south ridge. Call me a child—I don’t care! The air tasted like snow, and a frigid breeze clawed through my jumper. But I wasn’t cold. Not for a moment. I felt something—something that didn’t hurt—and I liked it. So, there I sat on the sod, scribbling in the notebook I carry around with me. I would’ve stayed for hours and watched mist swirl over the countryside, but a storm drove me back to the house. And that’s when my day turned weird.

  Granted, I find oddities in the simplest of things—you know this to be true. Case in point: when I spotted Headmistress Poston’s star-shaped tattoo and invented an explanation involving spies, covert operations, and hidden identities. All that to say, I doubt my observations hold significance in the logical realm.

  While roaming the house, I discovered a study in the manor’s west wing. It overlooks the courtyard and contains a desk, chair, and shelves piled with books, each old and likely worth a small fortune. Above the fireplace hangs a portrait of a young man with dark curly hair and hazel eyes—and a chiselled jawline no person could forget. He looks about eighteen years old. Broody. Slender. Posed next to a horse and dressed in a tailcoat.

  Our type of boy.

  I’ve attached a photo. What do you ma
ke of it? Doesn’t the guy resemble Ian Wyatt from third-period arithmetic? Same pale skin and angular features. But this boy looks mature, almost serious to a point of sadness.

  He seems devastating in every way.

  The portrait inspired me. I decided to write a few thoughts about him into my notebook, but my pen ran out of ink, so I opened the desk to search for one. I pulled too hard, and the drawer popped off its tracks. That’s when I found the weirdness—a bundle of unopened letters tucked behind the compartment, each addressed to a Josephine De Clare.

  Should I read the letters? Dad might’ve left them for me. Probably not. I mean, they look rather dated. The paper is brown and brittle, and the handwriting is faded.

  I want them to be from Dad. After everything that happened, I just want to make sense of the pain, understand why it happened to me. Maybe I need to find myself, or something cliché like that. But I feel lost at sea, and I’m not sure what being found even means.

  Thanks for staying friends with me. I won’t get oversentimental because tears—even a drop—might dissolve these letters. Just know Dad loved you. I love you.

  Please tell me to read the letters.

  Josie

  P.S. I also found a box of old papers beneath the bookcase!!!

  (Sent from iPhone)

  * * *

  TWO

  ELIAS

  April 15, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  Not a day passes without thoughts of our fortuitous meeting. I think fondly of that night and the conversation we shared. Despite its brevity, our dialogue left an impression on me, which I cannot forget. I understand we have not engaged in an environment deemed socially appropriate. However, I feel the need to propose we begin a correspondence. Your wisdom and frankness lead me to believe only you can understand my situation. This was proven by your astute observations during our time together.

  My father died a month ago. I barely knew him, yet I mourn him with a ferocity that makes little sense to me. I loathed his estate and his widow, hence my quick departure from it. Indeed, I disliked every aspect of him, from the smell of his library to the way he sliced his venison.

  I now reside at Cadwallader Manor—my father’s northernmost property. Arthur Banes, my closest friend, and his cousin Lorelai Glas join me here. Their company eases the ache of grief or loneliness—or whatever emotions linger after a parent’s death. In truth, I thought myself immune to the loss of Father. I thought myself immune to most emotions, especially those attached to such a man.

  The Roch fortune belongs to me—Lord Roch’s bastard. Though not quite nineteen years of age, already I am considered the richest man north of Newcastle. The wealth should appease me, for I spent my childhood preparing for it. I attended Eton College and obeyed my father’s commands. Not once did I rebel against his wishes. Even when my mother—who served as a maid in the Roch household—perished from winter fever, I remained at school in submission to Lord Roch.

  Fortune has not satisfied me. Rather, it has created an emptiness. Perhaps I am ungrateful. The inheritance provides status and opportunities a bastard should not be allowed. Tell me—what do you think of my situation? I would appreciate your candour regarding this matter, for you are the first lady to address me with plain, honest speech. No practiced formalities. No wary application of the etiquette that governs relations between men and women.

  Recently I have found myself in an ill humour far more disagreeable than my usual temperament. I suppose the moors have altered me. Cadwallader Manor, large and dreary, receives a great deal less sunlight than my father’s home in the south. Cigar smoke from a previous owner clings to the walls. Candles burn tirelessly in a waged war against the darkness. Often I find the night more amicable, for at least the stars offer some consolation.

  My housekeeper, Mrs. Dunstable, insists I replace my city clothes, which she starches and presses each morning, with wool garments. She fears my health declines, for I have not a dry head since my departure from the Roch estate, and my clothes remain in an almost-constant state of dampness. Outdoors the mud runs deep enough to swallow one’s ankles. Inside, however, the fires burn smoky and weak. I must admit—a splash of brandy from time to time seems to best ease the chills.

  At present, Arthur plays his violin in the parlour. He prefers to practice after breakfast, when Lorelai retreats to the drawing room for an hour of watercolour. His music echoes up the stairwell and fills my study with squealing notes. Rapturous songs do not appeal to him. Instead, he performs melancholic pieces, which magnify the house’s already haunted ambience.

  He and I became friends during our time at Eton. You may recall a few of the stories I shared, ones about secret parties in the boarding house and night-time trips to the local tavern. Arthur was involved in all misadventures. Of course I would like to blame him for our frequent punishment, but I must accept responsibility. I was rowdy and liked to anger the headmaster, for he treated me poorly due to my illegitimate birth.

  Eton College prides itself on rearing boys from distinguished families. The school offers a superior education and lack of coddling—qualities which attracted my father. Lord Roch wanted me to grow into a strong man, not spend my youth in the servants’ quarters, where people showed affection. Roch men, even the bastards, are expected to demonstrate their manhood through intellectual discussions and unsentimental conduct.

  My reason for writing you must lie in the details of my upbringing. I find myself out of sorts, hardly the boy who climbed from his bedroom window and clowned at the pub. I feel as though my mind has imprisoned me, Josephine. You offered solace and friendship, and so I ask for your help. A gentleman should not request such advice from a lady, I realize.

  Our acquaintance has not been conventional from the start. Why change that now?

  Did you feel unlike yourself after the death of your father? I behave without the faintest trace of madness, but I feel it coursing through my veins. No one can know about it except you, for you are well acquainted—despite our limited engagement—with my sequestered notions of self and the world. Please know I am grateful for your tolerance.

  Arthur has finished his violin practice, so I must conclude this reintroduction. He wishes us to venture into town for entertainment, which will likely consist of drinks at the public house followed by a visit to the hatter. Lorelai does not plan to join us. She prefers to go on walks and collect things for her art. Just yesterday I found her bird feathers scattered about the manor and dried flowers pressed between the pages of my books.

  I pray the South agrees with you, Josephine. If you do find yourself near Atteberry, I invite you to visit Cadwallader. Although my description of the estate does not merit enthusiasm, I promise to be an exceptional host and introduce you to the finest of Northern England.

  With respect and admiration, I await your response.

  Yours ever,

  Elias Roch

  P. S. I shall post this letter once I learn your address. Our quick parting left me without your information, and my contacts are not familiar with the De Clare Family. I have written to relations who live in London, Manchester, and Liverpool, in hope they might be acquainted with you—or at least know how to reach you.

  April 17, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  If not for my wretched state, I would consider this letter and plea for correspondence an impertinence, daresay humiliating. I wish to preserve the sanctity of our meeting and your first impression. However, I believe only you can relate with my circumstance.

  Arthur would consider my feelings a sign of derangement. Lorelai would lose all respect for me the instant I shared these thoughts swarming within my mind. They mean well, and they are dear to me. But those dearest to us cannot always understand what causes us pain.

  I awoke in a panic last night, before morn smeared gold across the horizon, before the household staff began their chores. I had not a dream to frighten me, rather a weight that came from nowhere and settled on my chest. A wei
ght I could not touch nor remove. It pressed until I struggled to breathe, and I sat up in bed, gasping at the gloom.

  My thoughts went to Mother. I did not visit her during her illness, and I saw her only twice after I left for Eton. She contracted winter fever not long after I started my second year. Perhaps the weight I felt was nothing more than a reminder of her death.

  Eton was not an amiable place in my experience. I considered its schoolrooms bleak, its recreations barely tolerable. Arthur’s company helped me to survive the education, therefore allowing me to become the son Lord Roch wanted. I doubt I truly met Father’s expectations, though. He anticipated a great deal from his heir, and I never seemed enough.

  The past haunted me last night, and I sense it here still. I feel enclosed by a cage, but the bars are set wide. I could escape, and yet I choose to stay within confinement. Do you make sense of these scribbles, Josephine? Have I indeed lost my mind?

  Arthur took me to the public house yesterday for amusement. The pub is small and noisome, its floor sticky with ale. Few candles glow within its rooms, perhaps for the best. Those who frequent the establishment are a far cry from Atteberry’s respectable folk.