I knew Elias had written about you.
Gah, I’m not sure where to start or if I should tell you what I think. You asked what changed my mind, but I can’t answer that question without giving away everything.
You were right about Josephine, so you may be right about other things. Who knows? Maybe Elias’s writing will bring you both together. However, until that happens, I recommend you tone back the . . . sitting alone in dark hallways and trying to induce hallucinations. Like, if someone did that for a living, boy, they’d seem nutty as a fruitcake.
I agree with you about the biweekly update. My fall semester begins next week, and I’m already up to my neck in work and relational drama. Oh, did I mention Noah put marriage back on the table? Not a distant table. A right here table—one that was set picture-perfect with movie nights and lunch dates. (*sends table to Goodwill*)
What’s the matter with me, Josie? Why can’t I put my fears aside? Noah wants marriage because he loves me, no strings attached. That’s just it—we shouldn’t love someone for what they give us, but because they are. We just love.
And if I love him, shouldn’t I want marriage too?
Maybe I’m afraid something bad will happen. I don’t want to get hurt, and when you love someone, you choose to be hurt by them. You give consent to the pain.
You open your heart and let the break inside.
On a lighter note, your knitting club sounds like my worst nightmare. I went to dozens of family reunions when I was a kid, and they all ended with Uncle Sal drunk-singing Mariah Carey. I’m proud of you for knitting a scarf, though.
Whoa, I didn’t notice the time. I need to wake up in six hours.
Good night, Josie. Text me when you learn more about Elias or if he makes a miraculous appearance. And finish reading his novel. It may surprise you.
Don’t forget the real people.
Faith
* * *
* * *
From: Josie De Clare
Sent: Wednesday, September 6, 8:41 PM
To: Faith Moretti
Subject: Re: Oliver McLaughlin, aka Firewood Boy
I think Oliver likes me, Faith.
Last night I went to Norman and Martha’s home for dinner. They live in a stone cottage surrounded by garden boxes and pastures. It’s a lovely house, the kind that makes you want to wear a soft jumper and drink milk tea. The whole place smells of fresh wood and scones. Ivy clings to the stone exterior. A ribbon of smoke always curls from the chimney.
Martha greeted me at the front door and led me into their sitting room—a low-ceilinged chamber with armchairs and a roaring fire. Norman sat near a bookcase, reading a hardback on World War II. He motioned for me to sit next to him. After a few minutes of hearing his stories about Oliver, I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.
Oliver leaned out of the kitchen and begged his grandfather to stop. He smiled at me, then returned to his cooking. He made the entire meal—Lancashire hotpot, which consisted of lamb cooked in rich gravy and covered with golden potatoes, followed by a treacle tart for dessert. Blimey, his tart was scrumptious. (It was shortcrust pastry with a lemon-ginger filling.)
We gathered around the dining table like a family. Martha and Norman talked about my father, their children and grandchildren. Oliver mentioned our efforts to collect info on Elias Roch and looked at me with the faintest smile. That’s when I knew.
He doesn’t see me as just a friend.
Ugh, I’m such a fool. I should’ve noticed the way he grins when I enter a room or how he goes above and beyond to help me. I mean, he brings firewood to my house every morning. I have so much firewood. Stacks and stacks of firewood.
On the weekends, we do renovations or road trips to various castles. We visit the pub once a week. Sometimes Oliver pays the tab.
I’ve led him on, Faith. What should I do? I don’t want to lose his friendship, but I don’t view him that way. He’s nice-looking and perfect by most standards . . .
Just not perfect for me.
Why can’t I do one thing right? I’m a mess. A lovesick, emotionally disturbed mess who hurts everyone she touches. Did I tell you about my recent madness? I strung gorse into garlands and draped them from my bedroom ceiling. I took the portrait of me from Elias’s studio and hung it downstairs like a self-obsessed heiress.
Oliver cares about me. He attended the last two knitting club meetings, perhaps to show his interest in my affairs. First time, he brought Martha’s needles and a steak pie. He charmed everyone with jokes as Clare taught him different stitches and Stuart raved about the food. No wonder Lucille begged him to return. He’s like a knitter version of Cary Grant.
To answer one of your questions, nothing is wrong with you. Explain your feelings to Noah. If he doesn’t understand, then perhaps you aren’t right for each other.
Elias fell in love with Josephine after one meeting. Norman and Martha have stayed married for over forty years despite their differences. I guess love isn’t time. It’s not past or present, here or there. It doesn’t rely on convenience or agreement.
Love—the real kind—outlasts the hard days.
Cadwallader Manor seems restless tonight as if something disturbed it. I sit on the main staircase while Nan snoozes in the foyer and floorboards creak overhead.
OMG. Nan stood up and started barking at the drawing room.
I’m scared.
Josie
(Sent from iPhone)
* * *
EIGHTEEN
ELIAS
November 8, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
Winter fever came for me with a vengeance. It drained the life from my body until I stood at heaven’s doorway, a mere step from Mother and Arthur. Somehow I did not cross the threshold. I defied medical prognosis and survived. However, the illness did not depart without repercussions. It left me weak and short of breath. Even now I struggle to hold my pen.
Lorelai discovered me unconscious near my study’s fireplace. She and Mrs. Dunstable managed to carry me to my bedchamber despite their slight builds. They sent word to Atteberry’s doctor, who came post-haste. He feared I would not recover, for my lungs were flooded with bile, and no amount of coughing brought relief.
I spent weeks in a feverish sleep, my respiration so impaired my fingernails turned blue. According to Mrs. Dunstable, Lorelai decided to prolong her stay at Cadwallader Manor until I convalesced. She remained at my bedside. She washed me, gave me water. In truth, I am mortified by her attention, more so that a guest in my house administered such care.
No lady should feel obligated to bathe a gentleman or empty his chamber pot.
Four days ago, I regained total consciousness. My fever broke, and my breaths grew deeper. The doctor said I shall not fully recover for a month or so, but I am fortunate to be alive. Few people who contract winter fever regain their health.
I must draw this letter to a close, for my hand trembles with fatigue. I cannot sit up for long periods of time. Even the simplest movements exhaust me.
Josephine, the fever played tricks on my mind. I saw you at my bedside and heard your voice. I dreamt of you whenever the illness trapped me within sleep. Once I saw you reading in my alcove. I called your name, but you did not hear me. In that moment I wondered if death would end our separation. I inched closer to that promise of peace.
My agony seemed endless. I shook with chills. I ached and gasped, the pain so intense I experienced it even in slumber. And yet the more I suffered, the more vivid you became. I touched you, felt your cheek against my fingertips.
Truly, I would repeat the illness if it meant I could hold you again.
A letter arrived from Bath. Josephine De Clare no longer resides at 11 Great Pulteney Street. According to the current resident, Miss De Clare travelled north to her family home in Morpeth. The village is but a half-day’s ride from Cadwallader. Once I am well and liberated from this dismal bed, I shall venture there and dete
rmine whether Miss De Clare is you.
I pray you’re in Morpeth.
Elias
November 20, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I grow stronger by the day. Although I cannot walk more than a few steps, I sit up and eat on my own. The progress satisfies me, for I loathe constant attention.
Lorelai continues to tend to my needs. This past week she helped me eat, drink, and perform other human functions. The doctor told her such care was unsuitable for a lady. However, she disagreed and continued to nurse me, stating that sensibility, when chosen before the needs of others, resembled impudence. Mrs. Dunstable even offered to relieve her so she might wash, but Lorelai refused. I must credit her—she has more gumption than I believed possible.
Mrs. Dunstable and the maid brought a chaise lounge into my room. Each morning they guide me to the chair so I can lie near the window. Sunlight does wonders. It brightens my mood and keeps the chill away. For hours I bask in its warmth and watch blackbirds swoop across the grey sky. I gaze at frost as it paints small silver branches on the windowpane.
Lorelai reads to me until I doze. Then she needlepoints or watercolours. She prods me awake for afternoon tea and forces at least two scones down my throat, claiming I look gaunt. We share memories of Arthur and discuss literature until dinner.
Nothing could repay her kindness. When I thrashed with fever, she slept on my bedroom floor. She filled a vase with heather and put it on a side table to lift my spirits.
I owe her a great deal.
She cried when I first regained consciousness, then made me promise not to die. Now, before I retire each night, she visits my chambers and refuses to leave until I restate that promise.
Her sister died from consumption at age thirteen, a tragedy which resulted in Lorelai’s aptitude for caregiving. She worked as a nurse until the disease caused her sister to waste away. Indeed, life and loss go hand in hand.
The weather seems pleasant from my window. I sit with a quilt tucked around my legs and a pillow nestled against the small of my back. God willing, my strength will return before Christmas. I should like to host a gathering, perhaps invite the Glas and Banes Families.
Lorelai just entered the room with a tea tray. She insists I finish this letter and eat a scone before I—as she lovingly puts it—shrivel into an emaciated raisin.
Yours ever,
Elias
November 26, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I went outdoors for the first time in ages. Lorelai and Mrs. Dunstable helped me descend the staircase, an endeavour which consumed half an hour. They guided me into the herb garden, to a bench situated among rosemary plants.
My legs shook from the exertion. Since the fever I have walked no farther than a few yards at once. Sweat poured down my face, and a dull beat sounded in my ears. However, the discomfort faded once I submerged myself in the crisp breeze and idyllic quiet.
Winter arrived during my illness. Ice glossed the estate. A dusting of snow coated the ground, making the hills appear as though they were powdered with confection sugar.
Lorelai sat with me while I enjoyed the fresh air. She mentioned her family, no more upstanding than my own. Her brother lives in London with his slew of improper relations. Her parents reside in Dover and prefer social functions to the companionship of their children.
I was not the only child exiled by his father. At seven years old, Lorelai was sent to live with the Banes Family so her parents could travel abroad.
When we are children, we see our parents as moral authorities. We believe them all-knowing and unafraid, perhaps even blameless. But as we get older, we realize our mothers are just girls with babies, and our fathers are boys who do their best.
All children bear the collective weight of their parents’ behaviours, their upbringing, every praise and criticism. We are moulded by our circumstances, but we are not our parents’ mistakes.
We are not the errors inflicted upon us.
The past few weeks have opened my eyes. All this time I sulked and brooded though joys surrounded me, waiting to be chosen. I overlooked the blessings in my life, for they were not the blessings I desired. I thought myself alone, but I had Lorelai and Mrs. Dunstable.
My existence seemed dreary until I let the light in.
Elias
December 1, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
A coach will arrive tomorrow and take Lorelai to London. She must leave Cadwallader before her presence elicits rumours or alludes to an offer of marriage, which I have not made. Her prolonged presence at my home may encourage gossip or mislead her into thinking I share her affections.
Mrs. Dunstable and I organized a dinner party to bid Lorelai farewell. We asked the cook to prepare a meal of boiled fowl with gooseberry cheese, a repast that we agreed demonstrates a cordial amount of care. Edward and Mary Rose came to dine with us, their company more than amiable.
I moved without assistance, for the doctor has given me a cane, a smart-looking wenge shaft with a burlwood handle. Although my pace belonged to someone triple my age, I walked unaccompanied and greeted the Roses no longer frail and bedridden.
Lorelai met us in the dining room. She looked rather overdressed compared to our guests’ simple attire. Her ensemble included a silk evening gown the colour of dried lavender, its design frothy and fussy with ribbons, frills, and extravagant sleeves.
She elected to sit next to me. I should’ve noticed her closeness, how she touched my arm with her elbow, the way she laughed when I attempted a joke. In truth, I was too clueless and distracted to recognize her flirtation.
We finished dinner and retired to the drawing room for tea and a game of cards. The Roses left around midnight, after Edward pried a weepy Mary from Lorelai’s arms.
Farewell seemed a tiresome affair.
I said good night as Mrs. Dunstable snuffed candles. I climbed the staircase and shuffled toward my bedchamber, the cane adding a third step to my stride.
Lorelai called my name. She crested the staircase and raced toward me, bunching her skirt in one hand. “Ask me to stay,” she whispered once she reached my side. “Please ask me to stay.” Her chest heaved, and her eyes watered. She gazed at me for what seemed like hours, perhaps anticipating a response I would not give.
A lump clogged my throat. I leaned against the cane and asked why she wanted to extend her visit at Cadwallader. The answer to my question etched her face, but I needed to hear it.
“I love you,” Lorelai said with a gasp. “I’ve loved you a long time.” She grabbed my hand and pressed it between hers. She tilted back her head as though desiring a kiss.
The confession rippled through me like a punch. I freed my hand and stumbled back a step. I could muster no decent response, so I remained silent and watched heartbreak shatter Lorelai’s expression. Of course, I never forgot that moment at the ball when she expressed interest in a possible union. However, I assumed her attachment had faded due to Arthur’s death, her involvement in my pursuit of you, the court case, and illness.
Love? No, no, I did not think her feelings so advanced.
In retrospect, I should have discerned her affections. She had shown love in the smallest and biggest ways. She helped me in times of trouble, stayed at my side through sickness and health. But what about Mr. O’Connor? I believe she expected a marriage offer from him.
“Forgive my imprudence, Mr. Roch. I shan’t burden you with another outburst,” Lorelai said through clenched teeth. She turned on her heels and retreated down the hall.
She has already piled her luggage in the foyer.
I wish to part with Lorelai on good terms, but I cannot give her what she wants. Indeed, she must understand. She knows I love you, for she has seen the letters and read my book.
No other woman could find the slightest bit of happiness with me, for I have not the ability to halve myself. I am yours, Josephine. My love belongs to you and you alone. Why should I toy with a girl’s emotions when
I know the truth? I am depleted of romantic offerings, the openness needed to form an attachment. Pretending otherwise seems cruel.
It is right that Lorelai quits this place before I inflict more pain. She will thank me one day, when she’s married to a respectable gentleman and well off in society. She will realize her love for me and Cadwallader was foolish at best, for every girl deserves to marry a man who loves her in whole, not pieces. Every girl deserves to be someone’s first choice.
You are mine.
Elias
P.S. I plan to visit Morpeth next week.
NINETEEN
THE NOVEL
Josephine smiled at Elias from across the ballroom. She loitered with her friends in a champagne haze, beaming like the candelabras. Her expression seemed a reprise, the repetition of music once mournful, now triumphant. She wouldn’t marry Sebastian or spend her life indebted to the Darlings. She’d become Mrs. Welby, Lady of Windermere Hall.
Elias inched toward the dining room, his lips still tingling with Josephine’s kiss. He met her gaze with a crooked half smile. Until his final breath, he would remember this night, how mulled wine and evergreens infused the air, how the girl he loved had agreed to marry him.
Dearest Josephine Page 20