Yes, I still believe a topsy-turvy posture boosts the absorption of literature.
Oh, I found the softest pair of socks in my bedroom’s armoire. They’re powder blue with embroidered daisies. Not sure who owns them. Finders keepers?
My hermit life won’t end anytime soon. Mum told me to stay in Atteberry while she travels for business. (Not sure what she plans to do with my cat.) Although I’d expected to stay here a few months, Mum saying not to come home . . . I don’t know what’s the matter with me. The more I tell myself not to care, the more I do. Care. I care.
And caring hurts.
I feel a bit lost. Ever since Dad passed, I haven’t recognized myself, and the shock of total change scares me as if I woke up and found myself in someone else’s body.
Coming here magnified those feelings, but I wanted this clean slate because the choice isn’t to move on—life moves whether I want it to or not. No, the choice is to look forward, not backward, to take a step, because refusing to move won’t draw the past nearer—it only postpones better days.
Elias understood. He knew what it was like to live in this house, broken and desperate. He was afraid too. Of himself. Of letting people get close enough to see his pain. Maybe that’s what happens when loved ones die—people realize the danger of loving and being loved.
I haven’t opened more of Elias’s letters, but I’ve reread the first three. His words keep me company and offer a guide to this place. Elias wrote about various spots in the manor. He disliked the drafts and shadows, the constant dampness.
Really, nothing unites people like a mutual complaint.
Dad and Elias stood in this house. For them I’ll endeavour to restore it. One day the halls won’t seem dark and draughty, the rooms will radiate warmth. That’s how I will honour them—by turning the estate into the home they wanted.
Easier said than done. Right now the temperature indoors seems freezing cold, not at all like June should be. I built a fire in my bedroom and created a picnic spread on the floor. I even lit one of the candles I made. Smells awful. Rosemary and bergamot do not go well together.
Please email me once you wake up. I’d love to hear more about your classes and life in New York. Remind me of normal things like insurance so I don’t lose my grip on reality. LOL
Josie
P.S. Download a messaging app! I want to text you without paying a fortune.
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Saturday, June 25, 6:41 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: How to DIY a Hermit Life
Faith, what happened to you? Are you okay?
Something changed yesterday. I woke up, and the manor sounded different. Its creaks and groans seemed like breaths, whispers. I tried to ignore the echoes by playing music. I paced the galleries, walked up and down the arched staircase. No matter what I did, the sounds grew louder. Of course I figured my seclusion had taken its toll.
Wouldn’t anyone hear noises after five days spent alone in an old mansion?
Martha arrived with a pot of stew around noon. She went into the kitchen and said, “Lass, do you hear a draught?” That’s when I knew the sounds weren’t in my head.
Boredom fuels my imagination, right? Not a man who lived two hundred years ago. Not a book and bundle of letters with my name on them.
Josie
(Sent from iPhone)
FIVE
ELIAS
April 25, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
All this would be simpler if I were a man in a book, for stories, regardless of their trials, do find resolution and clarity in the end. Heroes complete their quests. Love draws people together despite impossibilities. And there is meaning to be found in agony and hope.
Perhaps stories are the best of us. Perhaps words are intended to capture our agony and hope and give them that meaning we so crave.
I wish to capture the plot threads that weave my own story, for if I can grasp them, then perhaps I can make sense of my life. I need resolution. I want to step out of this house, the monotony, and find a story that better suits me. Do you ever feel that way, like the story you’re living is but a way station to something grander?
My world shrinks a bit each day. Cadwallader’s halls seem narrower, the rooms more cramped. I must suffer from a bout of low spirits, for Arthur and Lorelai notice my altered behaviour. They insist I help them with menus and dance cards, tasks to keep me close by. As mentioned in a previous letter, we have begun preparations for a ball. Every respectable family in the county will receive an invitation.
I care not for events and large crowds. However, the anticipation of guests adds a pleasant vigour to the day-to-day. I assist Lorelai with decorations for the gallery. Arthur and I endeavour to construct a stage to accommodate our musicians. The constant hammering infuriates Mrs. Dunstable, so much so I gave her the day off.
Work should distract me, and yet my thoughts wander to Father, Eton College, and you. Indeed, I cannot prevent myself from considering what my story might have been if I refused to leave your company and come to Cadwallader.
None of my connections have yielded information about your whereabouts. It is as though you don’t exist. Oh, why did I not ask for your address that night? I was an idiot for walking away.
Arthur took me to the public house last night, against Lorelai’s wishes. He downed a few pints, then asked me why I seemed downcast. I told
