Dearest Josephine

by Caroline George

  He entered the gallery, where oak buttresses and elaborate moulding showcased the manor’s architecture. Fitz sat on the checkered floor, surrounded by an army of toy soldiers. His playmate was Mr. Darling’s valet, a man who rather enjoyed boyish pastimes.

  Their battle seemed best left uninterrupted, so Elias hurried to the servants’ stairwell. He paused on the first step as heat drifted from the lower level, tinged with delicious scents. Then, with a sigh, he descended the stairs and followed a whitewashed corridor to the kitchen.

  A bundle of heather caught his notice. He paused near a sideboard, where one of Josephine’s bouquets wilted in a vase. Its purple buds scattered the counter, now dried to crisps.

  Elias reached for the petals but recoiled. How could he starve his heart of Josephine if he filled his pockets with keepsakes? No, no, he would not take even a fragment of her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Capers,” Elias said when he entered the kitchen.

  A woman with grey hair stood near the stove. She looked at him, and her expression melted like butter on a skillet. “My, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I brushed my hair for you. And look at my boots. No mud,” Elias said as she hastened to embrace him. He hadn’t realized his lostness until now, as if he’d misplaced pieces of himself and one gaze from a friend drew him back together.

  “Dear boy, I’ve missed you.” Mrs. Capers hugged Elias’s waist, her small form scented with cinnamon and herbs, aromas that swept him back to Windermere Hall. She pinched his arm. “You’re too slender. The other cook didn’t feed you enough.”

  “Oh, Mr. Welby, hello.” Anne emerged from the servants’ hall and shooed a hen off the kitchen counter. “Please excuse the mess. Somebody left the back door open.”

  “Anne, I didn’t know you planned to come.” Elias beamed. The past few weeks had messed with his mind, caused him to go too deep into himself. He’d started to feel cold. Not on his skin. Beneath. Like the main floors of Windermere Hall. But Anne and Mrs. Capers brought warmth. They knew him, and to be known in a world of unknowns seemed the greatest gift.

  “The Darlings offered her a scullery maid position. Good thing too. She wouldn’t last a day alone with Lady Welby.” Mrs. Capers squeezed Elias’s hand. “Stay here, and I’ll prepare a spread of sandwiches. Want some tea? I’ll make tea.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Elias said. He rested on a wooden stool and tossed crumbs to the hen, who pecked the mud-smeared floorboards.

  “Do the Darlings treat you well?” Anne fetched a tin of biscuits from the cupboard. She arranged shortbreads on a tray decorated with painted flowers, then offered them to Elias.

  “They’re kind to me,” he said. “How’s my father?”

  “Unchanged,” Mrs. Capers said as she flitted about the space. “Miss De Clare greeted us outside an hour ago. Quite a pleasant young lady. She invited us to afternoon tea.”

  “Yes.” Elias cleared his throat. “She’s betrothed to Sebastian.”

  “Poor girl.” Anne snorted.

  “They don’t care for each other.” Elias took a bite of shortbread and let it dissolve on his tongue. “Sebastian ignores her, which doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Blazes, Mr. Welby.” Anne gasped and leaned against the counter, her eyes widening. “You love her. You’re in love with Miss De Clare.”

  “What? No.” Elias shook his head. He rose from the stool and inched toward the butler’s pantry, his pulse racing. If Anne recognized his feelings, did other people notice his attachment?

  “Retreating like a coward, are you?” Mrs. Capers followed Elias across the kitchen. She grabbed his chin and examined his face. “Tell me the truth. Do you fancy Miss De Clare?”

  “How am I supposed to answer that?”

  “See! He loves her. I knew it.” Anne waved her finger at Elias. “Do be careful, Mr. Welby. My friend told me about a man who stole his brother’s fiancée—”

  “I do not love Miss De Clare.” Elias pecked Mrs. Caper’s cheek, then strode to the service stairs, trying to convince himself he spoke truth. “I’d better go. I’ll visit again before dinner.” His chest ached, for his heart had set off an avalanche, and there was no stopping it.

  Elias went to the manor’s west wing, a maze of forgotten chambers tucked behind Fitz’s nursery. A previous owner had constructed the accommodations, perhaps to entice guests to stay for long periods. Now the rooms belonged to dust and disuse, furniture draped with sheets, and mice who frightened the maid. No one ventured down the narrow corridors, a fact which relieved Elias. He couldn’t focus on his studies when Sebastian pestered or when Mrs. Darling’s lapdog barked. And he needed to focus before he lost all sense.

  He walked toward his study at full speed. The sooner he locked himself away, the better. In solitude his feelings wouldn’t threaten his reputation.

  His eyes couldn’t reveal secrets from behind a closed door.

  The same thoughts led Elias to this annex time and time again, for his mind reeled in a dreadful cycle—Josephine, self-loathing, and an emotion he categorized as bitter acceptance. At least his uncle cared enough to offer him a hideaway. The small library suited his moods with its dark wood panelling, the smell of browned pages and leather. He’d spent many afternoons lingering near the bookcases, tracing his fingertips across faded covers and worn spines.

  Literature provided the purest form of companionship. It drew him into a safe place, where his worries floated like dandelion fluff. It preserved his sanity and let him dream. Of course he craved the library, for when he sat in his armchair and lifted a novel to his face, its pages acted like blinders. They masked him. Perhaps his dilemma could be solved with a thick book. He needed only to hide until Lord Welby allowed him to leave Cadwallader Park.

  Elias reached the study and turned its brass doorknob. He entered the chamber but froze when he noticed legs draped over a velvet sofa, their shoeless feet swaddled by silk stockings. His breaths rasped as he absorbed the scene—a girl reading upside down on his settee. No, this room belonged to him, not her. She couldn’t invade his one safe place.

  “What are you doing in here?” he growled.

  Josephine scrambled into an upright position. She gawked at him, her dress still bunched around her knees, her tangled hair a mess. “I saw the books and . . .” She wiped tears from her cheeks. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize this study belonged to you.”

  Elias flexed his fingers, trembling with anger or embarrassment. He should apologize for snapping at Josephine. He should push her into the hallway. He should do something, anything, make a choice, say a word. But all he could do was stare at her puffy eyes.

  “I’ll go.” She climbed off the sofa and rushed to the door.

  “No, no, please stay.” Elias blocked the exit.

  Cadwallader Park contained several libraries, all of them grander than his retreat. Had Josephine come here to escape attention? And what caused her to cry? Life’s misfortunes or the book now abandoned on a cushion?

  “What type of books do you like?” Elias asked. He stood close to her. Too close. His cheeks burned, perhaps to hint at what might happen if someone found him with Josephine.

  “Fairy tales, mythology, novels with romance and ghosts. Really, I enjoy all fiction,” Josephine said. She gazed up at him, her mouth stretching into a smile.

  “You’re welcome to borrow from this collection.” Elias studied her features—the faint sunspots on her cheekbones, how her upper lip folded when she grinned. Indeed, she was beautiful, but like a rainstorm, not a piece of china.

  Like a sprinkle of dried heather on a sideboard.

  Josephine turned on her heels and meandered across the study. With a sigh, she collapsed onto the sofa, her head lolling against the backrest. “I daresay you’ve been avoiding me, Mr. Welby. Because I am engaged does not mean we can’t be friends, and I think we should.”

  “Be friends?”

  “Yes,” Josephine said with a nod. She grabbed a f
istful of her skirt and proceeded to pluck thorns from the fabric. “Sebastian wants to discuss only parties and hunting. I doubt he’s read a novel from cover to cover.”

  “So, you wish to be friends because my cousin bores you?” Elias rubbed his jaw as a smile tugged his face. He couldn’t take his eyes off Josephine. She was magnificent and bold and uncouthly direct. No other girl compared to her, not in the slightest.

  “We have fun together, don’t we?” Josephine sat up straight, her expression reminding Elias of the afternoons they’d spent in Mrs. Darling’s old clothes, practicing lines of Shakespeare with Kitty and Fitz. They were friends despite Elias’s avoidance.

  They’d been friends for quite some time.

  “Mr. Darling arranged the betrothal,” Josephine said. “He wrote to Mother a few months ago and proposed I marry Sebastian. Now, before you judge me—”

  “I don’t judge you.” Elias perched on the chair across from Josephine. He leaned against his thighs, a knot twisting his stomach. Of course, money and station must’ve been involved in the arrangement, for no lady would agree to marry Sebastian without benefits.

  “Are you pleased with the match?” he dared to ask.

  “Girls don’t get to be pleased, at least not in the real world.” Josephine grabbed the novel she’d been reading before Elias interrupted her and flipped through its pages. “Books are kinder. They allow girls to go on adventures and fall in love. I do believe literature holds the best of us . . . or perhaps it reflects the better versions of who we are.” She hugged the volume, her voice faltering. “I’d like to live in a book.”

  “I know how we can manage.” Elias rose from the chair and went to a shelf beside his desk. He wanted to beg Josephine to reconsider the engagement. He wanted to live in a book with her, about them, without Sebastian and Lord Welby. The notion seemed childish, but he was young and so was she. Neither of them should have to think about the rest of their lives.

  Josephine followed him to the bookcase. She touched the embossed spines as he’d done countless times, and for a moment the library appeared to celebrate her. Golden beams poured between the curtains and framed her silhouette. Dust whirled around her in ashy tendrils.

  The sight caused heat to ripple through Elias’s body, the sensations expounding until he felt magnified and raw, until he burned from the inside out. He couldn’t alter his and Josephine’s circumstances, for society plotted their futures. All he could do was provide what she asked for—a friendship, a book, some afternoons of laughter before adulthood caught up with them. He wanted the whole story, but he’d settle for a chapter.

  A little of her was worth the pain of losing her.

  “Miss De Clare, I present you with a gift,” Elias said. He removed a novel from the shelf and handed it to her. “A chilling ghost story.”

  “How chilling?”

  “You won’t sleep a wink tonight.” Elias glanced down and shuffled his feet. “Also, I accept your proposition. Let’s be friends.”

  “Shake on it.” Josephine extended her hand. “My friend, Mr. Welby.”

  Elias wrapped his fingers around her palm. Their interaction defied etiquette, but he didn’t care. He tried to care. He wanted to care. He listed all the reasons why he should keep her at a distance. But she stood close. She’d entered his safe place. Now no room was without her.

  She was everywhere.

  “Please call me Elias,” he said. “Mr. Welby . . . It sounds too formal.”

  “Elias.” Josephine spoke his name like a secret, each syllable careful and savoured. “You must call me Josephine, then. I insist.”

  “Hello, Josephine.” Elias shook her hand once more. He laughed when she perched on her tiptoes and ruffled his curls as if he were still an Eton boy. For weeks he’d questioned whether the bonfire kiss fuelled his infatuation. He’d wondered if his feelings might’ve been different if he had met Josephine at the engagement dinner. However, each question led him to the same conclusion: Yes. Of course. No doubt about it. He would’ve loved her at any beginning.

  He loved Josephine De Clare.

  “Sorry. I don’t know why I touched your hair.” She covered her eyes with her fingers. “I embarrass myself all the time.”

  “I do too. A week ago I tripped and fell down the staircase, rolled all the way to the bottom,” he said. “You . . . You’re the least dislikeable person in my acquaintance.”

  “What a friendly thing to say.” Josephine clutched the novel to her chest, its cover the same hue as her ribbon sash. “Thanks for the book. I shan’t bend the pages or drop my tea—”

  “Do what you like with it. The Darling Family doesn’t read.”

  “Perfect. I’ll use it as a coaster.” Josephine curtsied, then ambled to the door. She turned and smiled at Elias one last time. “You make me forget why I was ever sad.”

  Elias bowed, his grin widening. That settled it—he wouldn’t leave Cadwallader Park. He would suffer heartache. He would throw rice at the wedding. He would do whatever was needed to stay close to Josephine, for love was not based on whether the right girl ended up with the right boy. Love just was—was there, in one’s chest, stubborn and certain.

  Love wasn’t something he could escape.

  TEN

  JOSIE

  * * *

  From: Faith Moretti

  Sent: Saturday, July 2, 4:07 PM

  To: Josie De Clare

  Subject: Paddling Back Together

  Hi Josie,

  The coffee date happened. It seemed more like an interrogation or standoff than anything romantic. Noah and I met at a coffee shop on Bergen Street, ordered lattes, then went to a table in the café’s back corner. We sat across from each other. Stone-faced. Neither of us wanting to say the first word.

  I apologized for my outburst and gave an explanation. He listened, but his mind seemed elsewhere. There was an emptiness in his eyes, the same glaze that appears whenever someone talks about history or the stock market. I knew then we didn’t have a chance.

  He said we weren’t kids anymore—we needed to think about our futures. He asked if I’d meet with him again in a few weeks. I promised I would. After that he gave me a hug and left.

  Noah and I drifted apart, Josie. We paddled for an hour to see if we could draw ourselves closer, but I’m not sure we have the stamina (or motivation) to continue. Not everyone who loves each other ends up together, and that’s okay. It must be okay.

  Please don’t try to make me feel less crappy. I’ve already eaten a pint of ice cream and cried in the shower. Any kindness might liquidate me into a puddle of my own tears.

  I don’t know if I’m to blame for the breakup or if it was inevitable. It hurts, though. I’m certain of the hurt. What if Noah is the one for me and I screwed up everything?

  As humans, we reach the end of our metaphorical rope, and we discover more rope. We don’t believe things can get better, but they do, and they don’t.

  I hope this is one of those get better moments.

  Now to talk about Oliver McLaughlin. First off, your email about the sword and Donut Disturb pajamas made me cackle. Of course you couldn’t meet a guy someplace normal. Is your firewood dreamboat in a relationship? Asking for a friend. (*wink*)

  Second, I’m glad to know someone in your age bracket lives nearby. Maybe he will help you renovate, haul ladders around, guard the toolbox. A romcom in the making!

  Did you get the job at Sassenach Bakery?

  Faith

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Josie De Clare

  Sent: Monday, July 4, 10:31 PM

  To: Faith Moretti

  Subject: Re: Paddling Back Together

  No feel-good sentiments from me, Faith. You may receive an ice cream delivery . . . but I had nothing to do with it. I also wasn’t responsible for the peonies that appeared on your doormat or the Adam Levine poster that
’ll arrive today. (Love you forever and ever, pal.)

  Sassenach Bakery hasn’t contacted me yet. They said to expect a phone call sometime this week. I hope they give me the job. I need a break from Cadwallader, Elias’s writing, and the constant repair projects. Already I’ve painted the entrance hall, de-shagged the drawing room, and cleaned as much as humanly possible.

  A member of the Atteberry Historical Society comes next week to survey the manor and explain ways to preserve the original features. I met him today when I visited the AHS.

  I biked into town around noon, once I reread Elias’s letters and emptied a teapot. The landscape seemed fogged with chalk, as if Headmistress Poston had clapped her erasers. Mist blanketed the hills, warm like steam from a kettle. I didn’t bother to wear a raincoat—a stupid decision. The weather soaked my clothes. I had to wring my socks.

  A wee man greeted me at the society’s front desk. He looked surprised when I enquired about Cadwallader Manor and Elias Roch. He led me into a back room that reeked of mothballs, then unearthed documents from a file cabinet. (I should’ve used the loo before asking questions, because the bloke chattered for hours.) Once he left, I studied the records until dusk, and then I met Norman, Martha, and Oliver at White Horse Pub for dinner.

  Elias left a meagre paper trail. Records date his birth and death, where he was born, but not much else. I suppose no one cared enough to chronicle his life.

  Documents confirm Arthur Banes (Elias’s best friend) died June 11, 1821. His brother perished in the Crimean War, and his sister married a relative of Prince Albert. Oh, a family tree charts the Roch lineage back to Alfred the Great. However, somebody blotted Elias from the list.