Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  When I saw the box, I thought Dad might’ve left something for me, perhaps a journal or his ideas about Cadwallader Manor. I should’ve known better. He kept all his notes—shopping lists, reminders, thoughts—in his mobile. For someone dedicated to preserving historical sites, he was oddly hell-bent on living paperless.

  He wasn’t Elias Roch.

  My seclusion has given me a creativity boost, hence my Kool-Aid hair. I came up with a television show idea titled How to DIY a Hermit Life. At first I considered naming it Mad on the Moors No More, but I figured the M’s were too confusing.

  If you wish to view my program, check social media. ;)

  Wi-Fi has dimmed Cadwallader’s eeriness. Blasting music fixes the silence problem. And I occupy myself with crafts when I grow tired of repairs. Yesterday I used an online recipe to make soap. I took heather from the front lawn, crumbled the flowers into my lard-and-lye mixture. (Thanks to Martha for the supplies.) Then I added lavender essential oil. I won’t ramble about the process. In summary, I made eight bars of soap, which you’ll receive as a belated birthday gift, two scented candles, and a hot-chocolate blend—cocoa and rose petals. I’ve yet to try the cocoa, so I’m not sure how it turned out.

  Evening dragged on. Horribly dull. I tweezed my eyebrows, which took a solid half hour. You’re familiar with my—as you put it—regal brow. So, after I plucked myself to tears, I watched a BBC film on my laptop and found a cosy nook where I could read upside down.

  Yes, I still believe a topsy-turvy posture boosts the absorption of literature.

  Oh, I found the softest pair of socks in my bedroom’s armoire. They’re powder blue with embroidered daisies. Not sure who owns them. Finders keepers?

  My hermit life won’t end anytime soon. Mum told me to stay in Atteberry while she travels for business. (Not sure what she plans to do with my cat.) Although I’d expected to stay here a few months, Mum saying not to come home . . . I don’t know what’s the matter with me. The more I tell myself not to care, the more I do. Care. I care.

  And caring hurts.

  I feel a bit lost. Ever since Dad passed, I haven’t recognized myself, and the shock of total change scares me as if I woke up and found myself in someone else’s body.

  Coming here magnified those feelings, but I wanted this clean slate because the choice isn’t to move on—life moves whether I want it to or not. No, the choice is to look forward, not backward, to take a step, because refusing to move won’t draw the past nearer—it only postpones better days.

  Elias understood. He knew what it was like to live in this house, broken and desperate. He was afraid too. Of himself. Of letting people get close enough to see his pain. Maybe that’s what happens when loved ones die—people realize the danger of loving and being loved.

  I haven’t opened more of Elias’s letters, but I’ve reread the first three. His words keep me company and offer a guide to this place. Elias wrote about various spots in the manor. He disliked the drafts and shadows, the constant dampness.

  Really, nothing unites people like a mutual complaint.

  Dad and Elias stood in this house. For them I’ll endeavour to restore it. One day the halls won’t seem dark and draughty, the rooms will radiate warmth. That’s how I will honour them—by turning the estate into the home they wanted.

  Easier said than done. Right now the temperature indoors seems freezing cold, not at all like June should be. I built a fire in my bedroom and created a picnic spread on the floor. I even lit one of the candles I made. Smells awful. Rosemary and bergamot do not go well together.

  Please email me once you wake up. I’d love to hear more about your classes and life in New York. Remind me of normal things like insurance so I don’t lose my grip on reality. LOL

  Josie

  P.S. Download a messaging app! I want to text you without paying a fortune.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Saturday, June 25, 6:41 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: How to DIY a Hermit Life

  Faith, what happened to you? Are you okay?

  Something changed yesterday. I woke up, and the manor sounded different. Its creaks and groans seemed like breaths, whispers. I tried to ignore the echoes by playing music. I paced the galleries, walked up and down the arched staircase. No matter what I did, the sounds grew louder. Of course I figured my seclusion had taken its toll.

  Wouldn’t anyone hear noises after five days spent alone in an old mansion?

  Martha arrived with a pot of stew around noon. She went into the kitchen and said, “Lass, do you hear a draught?” That’s when I knew the sounds weren’t in my head.

  Boredom fuels my imagination, right? Not a man who lived two hundred years ago. Not a book and bundle of letters with my name on them.

  Josie

  (Sent from iPhone)

  * * *

  FIVE

  ELIAS

  April 25, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  All this would be simpler if I were a man in a book, for stories, regardless of their trials, do find resolution and clarity in the end. Heroes complete their quests. Love draws people together despite impossibilities. And there is meaning to be found in agony and hope.

  Perhaps stories are the best of us. Perhaps words are intended to capture our agony and hope and give them that meaning we so crave.

  I wish to capture the plot threads that weave my own story, for if I can grasp them, then perhaps I can make sense of my life. I need resolution. I want to step out of this house, the monotony, and find a story that better suits me. Do you ever feel that way, like the story you’re living is but a way station to something grander?

  My world shrinks a bit each day. Cadwallader’s halls seem narrower, the rooms more cramped. I must suffer from a bout of low spirits, for Arthur and Lorelai notice my altered behaviour. They insist I help them with menus and dance cards, tasks to keep me close by. As mentioned in a previous letter, we have begun preparations for a ball. Every respectable family in the county will receive an invitation.

  I care not for events and large crowds. However, the anticipation of guests adds a pleasant vigour to the day-to-day. I assist Lorelai with decorations for the gallery. Arthur and I endeavour to construct a stage to accommodate our musicians. The constant hammering infuriates Mrs. Dunstable, so much so I gave her the day off.

  Work should distract me, and yet my thoughts wander to Father, Eton College, and you. Indeed, I cannot prevent myself from considering what my story might have been if I refused to leave your company and come to Cadwallader.

  None of my connections have yielded information about your whereabouts. It is as though you don’t exist. Oh, why did I not ask for your address that night? I was an idiot for walking away.

  Arthur took me to the public house last night, against Lorelai’s wishes. He downed a few pints, then asked me why I seemed downcast. I told him about my struggles, but he appeared not to listen. Perhaps I lack the ability to translate my feelings into engaging speech.

  Conversation often fails me, especially when it involves sentiments. I find it difficult to admit I am out of sorts, for my problems seem minor. Other people face worse miseries. A fortnight ago, the village tanner watched his house burn. My groundskeeper lost his son to consumption. Mrs. Dunstable received news her niece perished during the Scottish insurrection.

  I loathe myself for aching while others ache more, but if a child falls and scrapes his knee, he does not say, “At least I didn’t break my leg.” He cries because pain causes discomfort regardless of its intensity.

  All pains are equal and valid, and deserving of attention.

  Lorelai discovered my art studio yesterday. I suspect she followed Mrs. Dunstable to the third floor and heard my palette knife scrape against wood.

  Without a knock or greeting, Lorelai barged into the chamber and beheld my portraits. She rem
ained silent for several moments, then said to me, “You’re a romantic artist, Mr. Roch.”

  The statement was a compliment, but Lorelai spoke it with surprise as though she believed me incapable of creating art. I suppose she considered me a close match to her cousin, a man who yawns at the mention of Michelangelo and Rembrandt.

  Lorelai peered over my shoulder and watched me guide a paintbrush across the canvas. She complimented my strokes, then studied the portrait, the dark hair and regal brow. I must confess to employing your memory as my muse.

  Since Lorelai’s arrival at Cadwallader, I had attempted to keep my studio and hobby a secret, for she knows a great deal about the fine arts, her expertise derived from her childhood in Bath and time spent abroad. I had wished to avoid her judgement.

  After a brief chat about composition, Lorelai departed and soon returned with her own supplies. She perched on a stool beside me, then started work on her masterpiece, a painting of the moors. We continued our leisure and talked until Arthur summoned us for a picnic.

  The conversation with Lorelai was more personal than my recent interactions with Arthur. She enquired of my writing, for she has caught me with stacks of paper on multiple occasions. She also mentioned her suitor, who teaches at the Royal Academy of Arts—a Mr. Francis O’Connor. Do you know of him? According to Lorelai, he is well connected.

  I best conclude my ramble. The ball takes place in a few days, and I have yet to request ample provisions. My cook threatens to serve ham and stottie cakes if I fail to finalize a menu by tonight. Part of me wishes to see Arthur’s reaction to such dishes.

  Come visit us, Josephine, once you receive these letters. Your presence would surely lighten everyone’s mood and restore Cadwallader to the proper home it should be.

  Yours ever,

  Elias Roch

  April 28, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  Lorelai found my letters today while assisting Mrs. Dunstable with chores. She cornered me in the parlour and waved the papers, a silly grin stretching her face. She yelled, “Elias Roch fancies a girl. How marvellous.”

  Forgive me for not hiding the messages. Of course, I plan to post them once I learn your address, which means you will receive a bundle of letters eventually. They will likely come as a shock, for no one would expect to receive a pile of ramblings from someone they met once.

  Arthur sprinted into the parlour and snatched the letters from Lorelai. He paraded them about, daring to read my words aloud. I tackled him to the floor. Lorelai laughed harder than ever, then beat me with a cushion. A peculiar turn of events. I would never have thought Lorelai capable of brawling.

  Our skirmish ended with Arthur surrendering the letters. He begged me to send them, and I promised I would if he helped to find your address. What good are words if left unreceived? More so, what do I have to lose by expressing my desire to know you, Josephine?

  Lorelai came to my study this afternoon. She apologized for betraying my confidence and offered to assist me with the letter writing. I refused her proposal, but I did inquire about girls and their views on romance.

  Women live according to a different set of rules. At least, that’s what I gathered from Lorelai’s explanation. She told me ladies dislike men who express intentions too soon, but they also dislike men who refrain from expressing intentions. They want men to call on them but not too much. They want men to write to them but not too often.

  They want a lot of things, and it all seems complicated.

  Pardon me if I fail to abide by the rules. Men function more simply. For example, when Arthur and I quarrel, we punch each other and move on. Forgive and forget. And if I wish to befriend a gentleman, I comment on a sport and offer him a drink, and nothing more is required.

  That said, I ask for your grace. I may express intentions too soon and write too often. I may not pen the right words or communicate with clarity. However, you must know I regard you with the upmost respect.

  Yours ever,

  Elias

  P.S. I started drafting a novel last night. The writing itself is quite poor, but I enjoy the story. It was inspired by true events. Perhaps I shall become a novelist and my books will sit on shelves alongside Shelley and Austen. One can aspire.

  May 3, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  I would like to report my excitement about tonight’s ball. I do not wish to jump from my study’s window, nor have I spent hours rehearsing dances in private. However, the parishioner claims lying is a divine offense. So yes, I did in fact practice my dance steps, and I considered fleeing the house. No party is complete without at least one escape attempt.

  This morning Arthur and Lorelai agreed to join me on a ride to town. According to Mrs. Dunstable, my late nights have diminished the manor’s store of candlesticks—a hundred of them to be precise. One cannot host a ball in the dark, though I would like to attempt such a feat. So I decided to venture into Atteberry and replace what I burned for these letters.

  I fetched Willoughby, my white thoroughbred, from his stall and saddled him. You would like Cadwallader’s stable. It is one of my favourite places at the estate. If you climb into the loft and lie where the hay is thinnest, you can peer through the roof slats and watch the sky.

  Arthur and Lorelai joined me on the front lawn. They looked smart in their riding clothes, while I wore breeches and a waistcoat. Eton did not teach me proper dress. While there, I learned philosophy and geography but not fashion. The school required a uniform, so I am accustomed to wearing the same attire each day. Indeed, I feel most accomplished if I change my cravat.

  Mrs. Dunstable fled the manor, my overcoat waving from her arms like a battle flag. She reached the side of my horse and flung the garment at me, her chest heaving from exertion.

  Physical activity has never suited her frame.

  I donned the coat to appease her, for to watch me gallivant across the county in improper dress causes her immense grief.

  Arthur snickered at me. He sat atop his purebred, boots wedged in stirrups, a tall hat perched upon his scalp. Since our childhood, he has believed himself the definition of style. Even his uniform at Eton seemed finer than mine. He likes his caped greatcoat and embroidered handkerchiefs, the yields of his generous allowance.

  He kicked his heels and galloped past Lorelai, who waited near the gates. She laughed at him, then followed in a charge toward Atteberry, riding side-saddle. They commanded me to race them, so I did. I steered Willoughby off the path and rode across grazing land. Lorelai called me a cheat but only because I won.

  The race helped me to breathe, as if the movement relieved some of the tension in my chest. Several panic episodes have assaulted me since the night we met. Whenever they occur, I remember what you told me—to note my surroundings, to list all the small things that bring me joy. I think of you first. You are my happiness. Perhaps I am wrong to confess such a feeling, but people must select their own joys, because joy, if not chosen freely, isn’t joy at all.

  You are the joy I choose, Josephine. I confess it.

  Arthur and Lorelai enjoyed Atteberry’s moss-painted cottages and faded storefronts, idyllic qualities most appreciated by city folk. After we tethered our horses to a post, we wandered the streets. Arthur wanted to visit the haberdashery—he needed a button for his tailcoat—but we ended up at the market.

  I thought I saw you in the crowd. I called your name and ran after a girl who resembled you. I smiled at her, believing my search was at an end. Her profile and hair were the same as yours, but she was not you. She did not even recognize your name.

  Lorelai caught up with me. I believe she realized my mistake, for she hugged my arm and guided me to Arthur. She assured me I would find you, but I grow less certain by the day.

  After Arthur purchased his buttons, we bought candlesticks and returned to Cadwallader. Now I hide in my study with a chair wedged against the door.

  Father’s widow responded to my letter. She told me she had not heard of your family
, and she is versed in the who’s who of society. I am beginning to wonder if you are a ghost.

  Arthur hired valets to assist us tonight, which means I must let a stranger outfit me for the ball. Why do rich men need poor men to clothe them? Does wealth prevent one from dressing?

  I suppose I shall find out.

  Father added many poor men to his service. He liked the attention or perhaps the status of governing a large household. Whatever his reason, he collected maids, valets, footmen, cooks, butlers, and other titles. My mother, Victoria, joined the roster at age twenty. She worked for Lady Roch as a housemaid, a position that introduced her to Lord Roch.

  Nobody knows the extent of what happened to Mother. I have kept the facts a secret, for the truth is raw, and people prefer their truth seasoned, marinated, and cooked medium-well. Such people do not deserve to know about her pain.

  Do you think about me at all, Josephine? I cannot get you out of my head, not for a single moment. In my eighteen years on this earth, I have conversed with but one person who saw me, truly saw me. That person is you, so you must understand why I need you to be real. Even if I never see your face again, to know you exist would give me peace.

  Over the past few days, I compiled a list of all the details I remember about you. I know you lost your father, you attended a boarding school, and your perfume smells like Paris in springtime. I know you love to dance and laugh and go on adventures. Your middle name is Emilia. Your eyes are slate blue. When you talk, you wave your hands.