Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  I would rather seem too eager than spend my life wondering if you really found me that night. I was lost and broken, and I thought no one would care how I felt. My headmaster, Father, and even Arthur have all told me to toughen up, be a man, drink an extra pint. I listened to them and made no mention of feelings. Then I met you, and I saw a glimmer of what living could be.

  Please do not be a ghost.

  Elias

  P.S. My accountant leaves for London tomorrow. I shall ask him to make inquiries about you. Also, I have written more of my novel. ’Tis hardly a masterpiece, but I hope to share it with you one day.

  May 4, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  I have decided to forsake people, all of them. Arthur and Lorelai can stay at Cadwallader, but I wish to remain alone. My teapot seems good enough company. It refrains from hinting at marriage or coaxing me into the public’s eye. Really, I consider my library the pinnacle of social interaction.

  As you probably deduce, the ball did not go as planned. It was no disaster, mind you. Guests were polite, and the festivities lasted until dawn. Mr. Rose complimented the orchestra. Lady Seymore and her son praised the experience, which says a lot, for they are the most miserable people I have ever met. The trouble came from an unlikely person.

  Lorelai Glas.

  The night seemed varnished with a golden sheen. Carriages rounded the manor’s drive, their horses pounding gravel as if to applaud the parade. One by one, gentry clothed in satin and velvet emerged from their boxes. They bid adieu to their drivers and flocked to the main house, glittering like jewels in the torchlight.

  I watched the commotion from a second-floor balcony as the string quartet played a minuet. Guests drifted into the great hall, where candles and chandeliers shooed away the gloom. I might have greeted them at the front door, but I was delayed as my valet outfitted me in a tailcoat with a silk collar, a bloody awful design. I do not recall purchasing the garment. Surely Arthur ordered it from town to mess with me.

  Before you blame vanity for my tardiness, let me add that the tailcoat was large and required alterations, for I am both tall and slim, as you know.

  That said, I was late to my own ball.

  Guests approached me once I entered the gallery. It would suit me fine if I never again engaged in small talk. How can one discuss weather for more than a minute? Northumberland experiences rain, fog, snow, and brief spells of sunshine in the summer. There. I have summarized the nation’s environmental report for the next thousand years.

  Arthur teased me when I reached his side. He snatched two cups of Madeira wine from a footman’s tray and observed the dance floor, perhaps to select his next partner.

  I followed him along the gallery wall, past my collection of sculptures. Older guests lingered near the artwork. They raised their ratafia and cigars to toast my good fortune. Indeed, my sudden popularity struck me as odd. I have attended countless parties over the years, and most of them included whispers about my birth, faux pleasantries, and gentlemen who ensured I did not speak with their daughters. How strange. I am now the most sought-after man in Atteberry.

  My friend came to an abrupt halt, his stare fixed on Mary Rose, who stood alone while her husband prowled the card tables. He placed his empty cups on a bust of Julius Caesar, then marched toward the lady without so much as telling me good night.

  The Banes Family cares little about their reputation. Mr. Banes earned his wealth from shrewd business. He married a bourbon heiress whom he met in Prussia before the French Wars. Their rise in high society involved politics and the worst of rumours. However, their popularity grew, for the public enjoyed gossip. Such behaviour encouraged Arthur to befriend me and to flirt with married women.

  Not knowing what to do without Arthur, I moved toward the dining room. Dancers floated in a sea of ostrich plumes. Rainbows glistened on the marble floor, crawled up the partitions, and hovered above heads.

  You would have enjoyed the party, Josephine. The whole night, I thought about dancing with you. I imagined us facing each other on the dance floor. Better yet, I remembered our horrid moves from the night we met, and I pictured us re-enacting them on the patio. A performance to give my guests a shock.

  Lorelai drifted from the crowd as musicians played a waltz. She looked unlike herself, dressed in an emerald ball gown, her champagne hair no longer in its bun. At first, I did not recognize her, for I have grown used to her fixed and rather plain appearance.

  She asked if I would paint with her tomorrow.

  Women speak in code, do they not? I try to decipher it, but I cannot manage. They mean what they do not say, and they say far less than what they mean.

  In hindsight I now see how Lorelai blushed and batted her eyelashes. Instead, I asked her to dance. She needed a partner, and gentlemen were scarce. A waltz seemed harmless.

  Lorelai smiled as we entered the whirlpool of dancers. She asked if I minded her prolonged stay at Cadwallader. I confess—I was not paying her much attention and do not recall my response. I gazed into space as we orbited the room like a planet within a candlelit solar system.

  She touched my shoulder, her left hand clasped in my right. I twirled her across the floor, not once bruising her toes, thanks to my hours of practice. Then music slowed us to a turn, and our audience blurred into a kaleidoscope.

  One face remained distinct.

  A naval officer stood near the door with Lady Seymore. He caught my gaze, and in a flash of nostalgia I became a child peering into my father’s study. This man used to visit Lord Roch.

  Lorelai opened her mouth to speak, but I silenced her with the question: “Are you acquainted with that gentleman?” I motioned to the officer. My heart pounded as if to warn me, and my thoughts raced to memories of Father, his meetings, the names of his acquaintances. He dined with nobility and members of the militia. He welcomed friends, comrades, anyone with a decent title. Admiral Gipson visited most frequently.

  The man’s presence in my home filled me with dread. Father had warned me someone might challenge my inheritance. However, until that moment, I never considered my fortune in danger. But I sensed it. I knew. The admiral had come to Cadwallader to confront me.

  I ignored the look of shock on Lorelai’s face as I bowed and left the dance floor before the number ended. She chased after me and said, “Mr. Roch, I find myself happiest in your home. Although I am young, I’m certain I could not find a more blissful place.” Her cheeks flushed, making the code quite clear. She wished me to declare intentions for her.

  I could not have been more startled. What prompted her affections? I thought her view of me brotherly, not romantic. Indeed, we have become close friends, but she often speaks of Mr. O’Connor in London. She reprimands Arthur and me for returning from town at wee hours. Her behaviour is maternal, even austere. Not once have I noticed the faintest hint of attachment.

  Besides, she is aware of my fondness for you.

  I took her aside to prevent a scene. I said, “Miss Glas, you deserve a house less dreary than Cadwallader. A quiet estate suits me, for I find no pleasure in society, but you are far too accomplished to remain in Atteberry. London seems a better match for you.”

  Lorelai stared at me as though I had committed a crime. Her eyes filled with tears and her jaw clenched. Without a word, she turned and rushed into the crowd.

  I did not mean to embarrass her or damage our friendship, but I couldn’t voice feelings I do not possess. She should marry Francis O’Connor, move into a townhouse near Hyde Park, and paint on the Thames’s bank. Such a life would bring her immense happiness.

  The upsets with Lorelai and Admiral Gipson sparked another panic episode. I retreated to my study while the guests enjoyed supper, and I have remained here since. What am I to do, Josephine? If the admiral challenges my inheritance, I may lose everything. If Lorelai departs Cadwallader, I may not see her again.

  My life hinges on the deeds of others, and it drives me mad. I wish to be content and loved, yet I fi
nd it poetic, even romantic at times, to be sad and alone. Truly, despair adds intrigue to my otherwise dull existence. If I could, I would shrink my world to a single room, a pile of paper, and an ink-dipped pen. I would write to you until my fingers grew sore, and then I would ask Mrs. Dunstable to scribe for me.

  Lorelai’s interest forced me to realize there cannot be anyone else, only you.

  Elias

  P.S. My great-uncle who dwells in Kings Cross sent word that he knows a De Clare Family. They reside in West London. He promises to investigate for me.

  SIX

  THE NOVEL

  Cadwallader Park, located in County Northumberland, possessed an extensive and rather dull history. The great manor belonged to a lord who gambled it away to a courier of the Royal Mint, whose financial problems led to monastic occupation. After a series of unfortunate owners, the estate became home to the Darling Family.

  Mr. and Mrs. Darling took pride in their modest lifestyle. They boasted about their humble country house, its sylvan charm and pristine gardens. Having come from a smaller yet far more prestigious London residence, the Darlings believed themselves simplistic to a point of superiority. Mr. Darling saw no reason to hire a full staff, a noble deprivation Mrs. Darling mentioned at her luncheons. Instead, he enlisted the help of several farmhands, a butler, maid, cook, and a valet who doubled as a footman.

  Although rich from clever business dealings, Mr. and Mrs. Darling kept their purse strings tight and recorded all expenses. However, the Darling children lacked their parents’ frugal nature. They preferred to bask in the grandeur society allowed them. Sebastian, the eldest son, built a reputation from his costly merriment and European tours. Kitty, the middle child, spared no pence on fashion, while the youngest, Fitz, desired only horses.

  Life at Cadwallader Park seemed picturesque despite its owners’ differences. Not a whiff of scandal travelled from the estate, that is, until Lord Welby’s bastard came to stay.

  “Let me die, Elias,” Sebastian said while pacing a stream bank. He shooed a team of ducks, his riding boots caked with mud. “I shall throw myself into the water and be lost forever.”

  “You seem more disagreeable than usual.” Elias refused to look up from his book, a history of Northern England’s great houses. Over his seven months at Cadwallader Park, he’d learned that Sebastian quickly lost interest in complaints and flitted to happier diversions. At least such was Elias’s hope, for he needed to complete his reading before Mr. Darling’s lessons.

  Lord Welby had insisted Elias learn about the upper class from the Darling Family.

  “Because I disagree.” Sebastian groaned and cradled his top hat. He crouched in a tangle of knapweed, his juvenile face aged by side whiskers and a scowl.

  “With whom?” Elias asked.

  “Everyone. I am in a perpetual state of disagreement.” Sebastian tossed a pebble into the brook, then sprawled on his back. He snorted when a gnat flew up his nose.

  “How exhausting.” Elias clamped his lips to hide a smile. He leaned against a tree trunk and flipped through the pages of his book. Despite his cousin’s theatrics, he preferred to read outdoors rather than sit with Mrs. Darling and her yappy lapdog.

  Nature kept time for him. Already September faded the landscape from green to brown in preparation for autumn. A chill blew over the ridges where sheep grazed, and withered summer flowers. Marigolds froze, cockles slumped, and ox-eye daisies shrivelled beneath a muted sun.

  “Father thinks he knows best,” Sebastian said with a huff. He rose to his feet and swatted the tree trunk with a branch, mere inches above Elias’s skull. “I disagree.”

  “Blazes, Sebastian. I do need my head.” Elias shielded his scalp with the history book. He glanced across the grounds, at the stream, coppices, and open land. The view put him at ease. Perhaps his father would confine him to the estate for years. Better yet, maybe his gentleman lessons would lead to a permanent residence with the Darlings. He liked Kitty and Fitz. He got along with Mr. Darling. Surely the family would not mind his extended stay.

  “I want to pitch a fit, not act reasonable,” Sebastian yelled. “I am not a reasonable man.”

  “Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.” Elias laughed. He reopened the book, his attention drifting off its pages. Music seemed to echo around him. Workers laboured in the gardens, chatting as they tilled manure into the moorland soil. Kitty played her pianoforte in the main house, and somewhere in Cadwallader’s sprawl, he imagined a maid hummed.

  “Come. Let’s go indoors.” Sebastian returned his top hat to its perch.

  “I’m reading.”

  “You were reading.” Sebastian grabbed Elias’s book and sprinted toward the manor, his legs flailing as he cut across the front lawn. According to the Darlings’ governess, nobody hated the word no like Sebastian. He always managed to get his way.

  “Bad form!” Elias rose with a sigh and followed his cousin to the main house. Since the bonfire party, he and Sebastian had developed a mutual toleration of each other. They weren’t friends, but they got on well enough to spend time together.

  Although most of their activities ended with Sebastian running solo into the distance.

  Cadwallader Park gained popularity from its grounds. Besides pastures, the estate contained an orchard, topiary maze, and gardens that curved around the east wing. Such marvels distracted from the less impressive residence, a home built like a castle. It blended into the terrain, a fortress of chimneys, noticeable only due to the ivy that clung to its grey stone.

  Elias had yet to grow accustomed to the manor’s dreary chambers. He considered the windows too narrow, the ceilings too low. A hatbox compared to Windermere Hall. Still, the house seemed far warmer than Lady Welby’s disposition.

  Fitz met his cousin at the herb garden. “Would you play tag with me, Elias? Please? Miss Karel will not play.” The nine-year-old abandoned his toy horse and governess, tackling a rosemary bush to block Elias’s path. “Please.”

  “Sorry, Fitz. I must finish my lessons and dress for dinner. How about tomorrow? We can play games all afternoon.” Elias ruffled the boy’s copper hair.

  “Hello, Mr. Welby,” Stephanie Karel called from her blanket. She waved a bundle of letters, notes written by a soldier in the militia.

  “I hope you received good news, Miss Karel.” Elias hid a smile, for he knew the governess spent more time writing poems to her suitor than educating the Darling children. He had edited her work on several occasions, even lent her books by Lord Byron. To his surprise, he rather enjoyed her sonnets. Perhaps Kitty and Fitz would become poets.

  Elias saluted his young cousin, then hurried into the kitchen yard. He inhaled smoke and earthy aromas that reminded him of Windermere Hall.

  “Master Sebastian ran upstairs.” The valet pointed at a back door. He leaned against the house and sucked on a pipe. “You be lookin’ for him, Mr. Welby?”

  “Yes, well, he stole my book.” Elias inched past a chicken and pig. Somehow the animals managed to escape butchery and wandered the yard, both caked with mud.

  “Again? My, you best wear your books on a chain.”

  “Capital idea. Now to invent a chain that’ll withstand Sebastian,” Elias said with a laugh. He sneaked into the manor’s scullery and climbed service stairs to the main floor.

  Dinner preparations, a daily chaos, were underway. Mrs. Darling paced the main rooms, her ash-black hair tugged into disarray. She yelled commands at the butler, who followed at her heels and muttered a series of “Yes, ma’am,” “Of course, ma’am,” “Right away, ma’am.” Kitty enhanced the commotion by playing her pianoforte in the parlour.

  “We cannot serve baked apples for dessert. Are you mad?” Mrs. Darling marched into the foyer, ignoring Elias as she berated her butler. “What’s next? Will you recommend porridge for the main course? No, go tell the cook to prepare blancmange. Baked apples . . . Ha!”

  Elias straightened when Mrs. Darling glanced at him.

  “Do not l
inger, Nephew. Go dress for dinner.” She charged toward the parlour, shouting orders at everyone in earshot. “Cease the music, Kitty. I cannot think. Where is Mr. Darling? Has anyone seen my boys? Find Sebastian and tell him to wash. Fitz, you left your toys in the hall.”

  Mrs. Darling meant well. She adored her family, more so her role as wife and mother. Elias understood her enough to keep his distance. He knew his aunt cared about him, for she invited him to gatherings and forced his practice of the arts. Still, he’d learned that married women required space to mother their young and on occasion, their husbands.

  “I’ll find Sebastian,” Elias yelled. He ascended the arched staircase and moved toward his cousin’s bedroom. The manor, although smaller than Windermere Hall, contained dozens of narrow corridors. After weeks of getting lost, Elias had finally mastered the maze.

  He passed the study lent to him by Mr. Darling. The room contained shelves packed with books, mostly volumes of historical text and fiction the Darlings no longer read. Still, Elias treasured the space. It made Cadwallader seem more like home, not a boarding school or prison.

  Lord Welby still hadn’t written. Each day, Elias checked the post for letters. He’d found messages from Mrs. Capers, a parcel of shortbreads from Anne, but nothing from the lord.

  His father must’ve forgotten about him.

  A wave of emotions rushed from somewhere deep and dormant, swelling until it sucked the air from Elias’s lungs. He sagged against the wall and gasped. His father’s lack of attention shouldn’t bother him, for he knew only distance and stern approval. To have and then lose would give reason for feeling, but he’d never had, so he could not lose. Nevertheless, he felt loss. A deep loss.

  Loss that brought tears to his eyes.

  Such a response seemed dramatic, a lapse of gentlemanly behaviour. He should consider himself fortunate. Other children, even some of the boys at Eton, grew up with violent fathers. They suffered worse than a lack of correspondence.