Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  Sent: Monday, June 27, 10:16 AM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Let’s Talk About Boys

  Hey Faith,

  I read more of Elias’s writing. I’ll share thoughts about it later. Right now, I want to talk about Noah, Rashad, and all the crummy boys in our lives. I mean, Noah isn’t crummy. But he’s a boy. And boys scramble our senses because . . . well, they’re boys, and we’re girls.

  Put aside your expectations for this email. I won’t babble about Cadwallader or Elias Roch. I won’t even mention the horrible weather (although it deserves a rant of its own).

  Your breakup caused me to tumble down a mental rabbit hole. I can’t stop thinking about my relationship with Rashad. For months, I thought he was this punky superstar. Not even David Beckham compared. I mean, Rashad walked into English class our thirteenth year, tattooed, pierced—a total cliché. And my dumb heart was like, “You need that anarchist energy in your life, Josie.” Gah, was I lonely and desperate? Why did I think Rashad was a good idea?

  It’s not like he was bursting with decent traits. You said he had the personality of a rock, and you were right. Also, he treated me like a pet hamster. I’m serious. He fed me, gave me basic affection, and showed me off to his friends.

  They called me Jo because Josie seemed too cute.

  Dad’s cancer altered my appearance, mood—everything. I didn’t realize how much had changed until after he was gone. People told me what to expect regarding his illness. I went to the support groups and doctor’s appointments. I knew early on how the process would go, but no one explained what that process would do to me.

  When I met Rashad, I was angry at the world. I didn’t want to cry anymore or be around people who cared. That’s why I stopped talking to you. I knew you would empathize with me, and I couldn’t handle it. Maybe that’s why I dated Rashad. His indifference made all the bad stuff—the reasons for pity—disappear. He let me feel numb.

  Rashad didn’t love me, but he attended my school events. He distracted me while Dad went to chemo and radiation. That’s all I wanted—to be angry with someone who liked me angry, to be broken and not feel obligated to heal. I relished being Jo . . .

  Until I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw.

  Until I returned to an empty house and realized everything I’d lost, including myself.

  The past few days forced me to feel all the yucky stuff I’ve avoided for months. I pulled up shag carpet, painted walls, and phoned contractors. I was alone with Dad’s project and Elias’s letters, and I broke down because . . . they loved Josephine De Clare. They really loved her. And I decided I wanted to be loved again, like that.

  From now on, I choose to let people care. I want to be Josie, not the girl who mocked teachers and cut her own fringe. (That might’ve been a worse mistake than Rashad.) I want to be a better friend to you. We promised to stay pals for the long haul, so I’m here. All in.

  By the way, I have a crush on Elias. It’s small and nothing. I mean, the guy lived two hundred years ago. Not like we can go out for coffee.

  Remember when we made that checklist and profile of our dream guy? I don’t know about you, but I spent hours analysing, strategizing, and searching for him. That’s how my mind works, anyway. It tries to make sense of complex things like emotions, it puts the heart in a box and bosses it around. But what if logic cannot determine whether two people are right for each other? What if love is the simple realization: I was made for you, and you were made for me?

  That’s my argument for why crushing on a dead man isn’t weird.

  You’re the most patient and level-headed person I know. Throughout secondary school, you put up with my clutter—the Dairy Milk bar wrappers, piles of clothes in my designated messy chair. You didn’t request a new roommate when you found me attempting to tie-dye my uniform blouse. Despite all my antics and emotional roller coasters, you stayed. You loved me even when I was hard to love. So, I know you and Noah didn’t break up on a whim.

  I know you would’ve stayed if staying was possible.

  Relationships are complicated because people don’t stop evolving. They change over time due to circumstances, new dreams, whatever. And if they don’t pursue each other, they drift apart. That’s why Mum and Dad got a divorce.

  Noah might not be a part of your future, and that’s okay. Your relationship with him mattered. It was real even if it doesn’t continue.

  Make sure this is what you both want, though. I think people who drift apart can drift back together (with a lot of paddling, of course). I think some loves are worth fighting to keep because love—the real kind—doesn’t come around that often.

  That said, I support you no matter what happens. But if you love Noah and he loves you, please attempt to paddle back to each other.

  Dad used to say if you love someone, let them go. I don’t agree with him. If you really love someone, I think you have to take them back.

  I remember those awkward phone calls, Faith. I heard your and Noah’s conversations, all the you hang up firsts and other mushy stuff. You both survived puberty and years of long-distance dating. Some good-byes are inevitable, but if you and Noah can’t last . . .

  None of the romantics have a chance. ;)

  Keep me updated! Your life seems like a proper romcom. I imagine you prancing through New York City, wind in your hair, Frank Sinatra blaring in the background. Granted, I learned about N.Y.C. from all ten seasons of Friends, so my knowledge is limited.

  Holding out for your happily ever after.

  A rainstorm keeps me indoors today. I plan to finish painting the entrance hall and bake an almond tart—Martha’s scrummy recipe. (Blimey, I mentioned the weather.)

  Josie

  P.S. I downloaded that messaging app you recommended so we can text like normal people. I already have a series of gifs and memes ready to send your way.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Faith Moretti

  Sent: Monday, June 27, 3:40 PM

  To: Josie De Clare

  Subject: Re: Let’s Talk About Boys

  Gotta keep this email short, Josie. My digital marketing class starts in a few minutes.

  The fight with Noah was stupid. He wanted to go back to IKEA, and I exploded. Think apocalyptic proportions. I told him I felt suffocated—I wasn’t ready to do boring adult stuff. I said I didn’t want to get engaged or buy a house in Jersey. Everything I’d been thinking just came out, and the next thing I knew we were breaking up.

  He walked me to the subway on Fourth Avenue. We kissed good-bye, and then we parted ways. I got on a train, and he returned to his apartment.

  I couldn’t give him an explanation, maybe because I didn’t have one. Like, whenever I look at my parents, I see the future they want for me—the husband and kids, stable job, all things normal. Then I look at Noah. His future seems laid out for him too. He wants me to be a part of it. Everyone expects me to be a part of it. And that’s what freaks me out. The expectations.

  Noah supports my fashion career, but he doesn’t know about the online boutique I launched a few months ago. Heck, I didn’t even tell him about this opportunity I got to intern in Milan next fall. Now you are the only one who knows, because you know everything, and I’ve never felt the need to change myself for you. But with him . . . I can’t really describe it. I’m just not me all the time.

  At this point I’m not sure how to make amends or if I should try. Noah won’t talk to me, and I’m fine with his silence. How is it possible to love someone and not mind their absence?

  Maybe time apart will help us mature, figure out whether we’re right for each other. Messy sometimes needs messy, but when two messy people are together, who cleans them up? Do they spend the rest of their lives in cluttered, mismatched pieces?

  Yikes, my professor just walked into the lecture hall. He made eye contact with me.

  NO! I’d be
the worst romcom protagonist, like, Ryan Gosling would run through the airport but never find me because I went to the bathroom.

  Professor yelled at me. Gotta run.

  Faith

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Tuesday, June 28, 4:26 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: The Hunt for Elias Roch

  Hi Faith,

  The weather resembled summertime this morning. I woke up to warmth. Sunlight cascaded through the manor’s windows and flooded the hallways. Birds performed outside, singing at high volume. Such a pleasant surprise!

  Elias mentioned various locations in his writing. I decided to take advantage of the clear skies and go on a scavenger hunt. I drew a map based on Elias’s descriptions. Then I put on my daisy socks and work boots—the ones I borrowed. My chosen destinations: the stable loft, gorse alcove, studio, kitchen yard, herb garden, and the stream bank.

  When I left the house, I tripped over Norman’s sheepdog, Nan, who often naps on the front stoop. The Shetland must’ve felt sorry, because she followed me around all day. You would like her. She has a thick salt-and-pepper coat and copper streaks around her face. Maybe I’ll persuade Norman to let me borrow her at night. I doubt he’d mind. He only needs her in the mornings and late afternoons. The manor would seem less eerie if I had a dog.

  Nan escorted me to the stable. I’d hoped to climb into its loft and peer through the roof slats, but the structure was rebuilt years ago. So much for my hunt.

  After that, I went around the east wing, to the ruins of a smokehouse. There I discovered the spot described in Elias’s letters, a place where rubble merged with a stone fence. At first glance I didn’t see the alcove, just rocks and gorse. But I crawled between the shrubs.

  I found it, Faith.

  Yellow flowers encircled the recess. Blue sky gazed down between the branches. And the air smelled like moss and wood. I almost cried at the sight. I relaxed against the fence, my toes pressed into cold sod, the sun hot on my cheeks. A breath caught in my throat because, for a moment, while Nan dozed beside me, I got the sense Elias was there too.

  We sat on the same ground, centuries apart.

  How could anyone hear about my situation and consider it a coincidence? Dad happened to purchase Cadwallader Manor. I happened to discover letters with my name on them. Elias happened to meet someone like me. No, this wasn’t an accident. Life guided me to the estate for a reason. What if I was meant to find Elias Roch?

  Once I left the alcove, I managed to visit the herb garden and kitchen yard before rain ended my hunt. Summer faded with the storm. Gone in a flash. Now I sprawl on my bedroom floor with Nan and a cup of Earl Grey. Norman and Martha invited me to eat dinner with them, so I need to bathe and detangle my hair.

  Josie

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Tuesday, June28, 10:03 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: The Hunt for Elias Roch

  A quick update! Norman and Martha took me into Atteberry for dinner. We ate sausages at a place called White Horse Pub, then walked to Sassenach Bakery for dessert. They bought my food and wanted to hear me talk. Gracious, nobody had listened—like, really listened—since Dad died. I asked why they cared about me, and they gushed about Dad’s kindness. Apparently he made sure they wouldn’t lose their house or farming privileges after his death. What if Dad kept the manor a secret to lure me here so I’d meet them?

  What if he planned for this place to become my new home?

  The village grows on me. It has the quaintest shops. On my way to the bakery, I passed Atteberry Tea Room & Café and the Knitting Emporium. (I added a sketch of the town to my Cadwallader map so you’ll understand my references. Photo is attached.)

  Oh, I enquired about Elias Roch. Martha told me to visit the local historical society—they have records dating back to the 1400s. Maybe I’ll go next week.

  Final bit of news: I applied for a job at Sassenach Bakery. Of course, I don’t plan to stay in Atteberry all year, but I need a reason to leave the estate and interact with other humans. Can’t you imagine me in an apron, with flour on my cheeks?

  Love, the future winner of The Great British Bake Off,

  Josie

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Friday, July 1, 12:40 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: I ALMOST KILLED SOMEONE

  Faith, I threatened a boy with a sword—an actual blade from the nineteenth century. I’m not a violent person. Dad gave me a bottle of mace when I turned sixteen, but I never used it, not even when Trevor McGreevy scared me in the school carpark.

  My time at Cadwallader must’ve changed me.

  This morning I heard a noise—footsteps, a door slam, the occasional cough. Norman and Martha had gone to Durham for the day, so I assumed a burglar had broken into the manor. In retrospect, I’m not sure what I planned to do once I caught the culprit, but I jumped out of bed, shoved my feet into slippers, and crept down the hallway.

  I pried an antique sword off the wall (Cadwallader possesses a lot of ornamental weapons), then snuck down the servants’ stairwell. I held the blade like a cricket bat and charged into the kitchen, yelling, “Whoever you are, get out of my home.”

  Go ahead. Have a laugh. I already spent an hour facedown in my pillow, utterly humiliated. Just think about what might’ve happened if I had attacked first, asked questions later.

  A boy stood near the furnace with an armful of firewood. He gawked at me—my sword and Donut Disturb pyjamas—and dropped the logs. He apologized, said his grandparents had told him I was at work. That’s right. I almost killed Norman and Martha’s grandson.

  He introduced himself as Oliver McLaughlin, then claimed he’d noticed I was running low on firewood and had used Norman’s spare key to open the back door. His outfit struck me as rather odd. He wore loafers, khaki shorts, and a thick, wool jumper in June.

  Pause the narrative. Let me describe this Oliver person to you. He has a young face, but I suspect he’s several years older than us. His expression seems one of perpetual amusement, as if he heard a joke and never stopped laughing at it. His hair sticks up like cowlicks, perhaps mussed from sleep. And OMG the colour. He must have dyed his black hair ginger months ago, because it’s grown out, leaving him with a calico look.

  Oliver knelt to gather the logs while I tried to fit my sword into a cupboard. He stacked wood near the furnace, and I rushed to make him a cup of tea like a good Brit.

  He must’ve seen my empty Pot Noodle containers in the sink, because he smiled, his cheeks scrunching, his eyes sparkling as if he knew a secret about me. Maybe he noticed the giant pom-poms on my slippers or the interior design notes scattered across the kitchen table.

  We talked for a polite amount of time. Oliver told me he studies medicine at the University of Edinburgh but took a gap semester so he could help Norman and Martha with the farm. He plans to stay in Atteberry until next year.

  For someone who broke into my home, Oliver isn’t so bad. There’s a cosiness about him as if he should only wear overcoats and knitted scarves. He smells like patchouli, and he has a small anchor tattooed on his wrist. (I hope my description paints a vivid picture.)

  Anyway, I felt less embarrassed when he spilled tea on his shorts. I might’ve even laughed when he tripped on a stray log. He laughed too. That’s when I knew I didn’t mind him. People who laugh at themselves make superb company.

  How was your coffee date?

  Josie

  P.S. I talked to Norman about Cadwallader. He told me the Hawthorne Family bought the estate in 1892. They owned it until the late 1900s, which is why I can’t find more evidence of Elias in the house. A lot can get lost in t
wo hundred years.

  * * *

  EIGHT

  ELIAS

  May 21, 1821

  Dearest Josephine,

  I completed the first three chapters of my novel, therefore committing myself to the story and its exposition. Words—more so the authoring of them—demand our bareness, do they not? My headmaster once said we take from books what we bring to them, meaning books are but reflections of us. I share that belief now. For the sake of literature, I undressed on a page. I exposed myself in a quiet intimacy. Now I am seen and spent, and I have no more to show.

  The novel reflects me, perhaps more than I intended.

  Since the ball, my residing guests have seemed altered. Lorelai paints alone on the patio most days. She does not speak to me at length nor look at my face. In contrast, Arthur wants to talk, always. He forces me into conversations about his family whenever we go to town. He sparks discussions about women and travel. Indeed, after several pints, he becomes sentimental. Just last night he spent an hour reminiscing about our school days and cried when I mentioned the mouse we used to keep in a box under my bed.