I’m excited for you. Nobody finds two-hundred-year-old letters addressed to them. Doesn’t happen. And yet it happened to you!
The coincidences blow my mind.
Gotta say good night and brew a cup of herbal tea (to hack my snack craving). Too bad we’re not still roommates. I’d be elbow-deep in your chocolate stash by now.
Faith
P.S. I know you dislike the Kardashians, but Kim released the best at-home workout. I’ll paste the link below so you can stay in shape while holed up at Cadwallader.
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Wednesday, June 22, 10:21 AM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Elias Roch Is My New Boyfriend
Good morning, Faith. I survived another night. Thoughts about Dad kept me awake, but what’s new? I tossed and turned until the sun rose. Then I walked to Atteberry Tea Room & Café for breakfast.
I reread Elias’s first chapter while I drank my tea. In the story, Josephine wore a red dress with golden bumblebee embellishments—a pattern that matches my old bedspread. I also had a bumblebee on my school notebook. And my laptop sleeve.
And the necklace Dad gave me.
The coincidences seem too intentional, like they couldn’t just happen by chance. Elias knew a Josephine De Clare. The way he described her and wrote to her . . . It’s like he knew me. I’m grateful for this find, whether it’s serendipity or divine intervention.
Elias felt what I feel. Maybe that’s the magic of all this.
Whenever I look at his writing, I get a pit in my stomach, this nagging sense I should remember him. Not in a time-traveller kind of way. (If I could go back in time, I would relive years with Dad, not visit the Regency period.) No, what I feel seems more nostalgic, like candy floss at the carnival or the smell of sunscreen. Maybe I heard about Elias a long time ago.
Maybe his words reflect my own experiences.
For the record, I do not think Elias wrote about me, nor am I using him as a rebound from Rashad.
His letters spur questions, though. I can’t help but wonder if our lives are like motorcars weaving around each other, destined to collide. Take us, for example. You and I shouldn’t have met. We grew up in different countries, separated by an ocean. You came from a large Italian family. I was raised by a single dad. And yet, despite the odds, we found each other. What if time works in a similar manner? What if we’re all but a step away from colliding with history?
Another fun thought.
I better stop this babble and get to work. My to-do list seems a mile long. First on the agenda: unclog the kitchen sink. (Pretty sure Dad poured macaroni down the drain.)
Cadwallader will be a showplace once I’m finished with it. You must come for a postgrad holiday so I can boast about my newfound talent for renovations. ;)
Josie
P.S. Be honest with Noah. You won’t know if your dreams align unless you share them.
(Sent from iPhone)
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Thursday, June 23, 10:07 AM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: How to DIY a Hermit Life
I managed to clean up the goo, Faith. Took an hour of rigorous scrubbing (and a half bottle of bleach), but the stains are gone, the pipes are unclogged, and I avoided further plumbing disasters. That said, I’m right proud of myself. YouTube and Dad’s boiler suit transformed me into a plumber—amateur but adequate. Maybe I’ll start a pipe-unclogging business.
Renovations will continue later today. I want to pull up the shag carpet in the drawing room. It’s a burnt-orange colour and reeks of cat urine. The sooner it’s gone, the better. (I’m surprised Dad didn’t tear out the carpet when he got here. He loathed 1970s design.)
Norman installed Wi-Fi in the drawing room yesterday, so I’m officially connected to the civilized world. He even hooked up an old television. It doesn’t have cable, but it plays VHS tapes.
Where do I buy movies on tape? eBay?
I didn’t want Norman to leave, so I begged him to stay for tea. He must’ve realized I was deprived of human interaction, because he talked with me for over an hour. Then he took me to the downstairs wardrobe and unearthed a box of Dad’s belongings. Nothing spectacular. Only a shave kit, mobile charger, and wool jumper.
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
