Conversation often fails me, especially when it involves sentiments. I find it difficult to admit I am out of sorts, for my problems seem minor. Other people face worse miseries. A fortnight ago, the village tanner watched his house burn. My groundskeeper lost his son to consumption. Mrs. Dunstable received news her niece perished during the Scottish insurrection.
I loathe myself for aching while others ache more, but if a child falls and scrapes his knee, he does not say, “At least I didn’t break my leg.” He cries because pain causes discomfort regardless of its intensity.
All pains are equal and valid, and deserving of attention.
Lorelai discovered my art studio yesterday. I suspect she followed Mrs. Dunstable to the third floor and heard my palette knife scrape against wood.
Without a knock or greeting, Lorelai barged into the chamber and beheld my portraits. She remained silent for several moments, then said to me, “You’re a romantic artist, Mr. Roch.”
The statement was a compliment, but Lorelai spoke it with surprise as though she believed me incapable of creating art. I suppose she considered me a close match to her cousin, a man who yawns at the mention of Michelangelo and Rembrandt.
Lorelai peered over my shoulder and watched me guide a paintbrush across the canvas. She complimented my strokes, then studied the portrait, the dark hair and regal brow. I must confess to employing your memory as my muse.
Since Lorelai’s arrival at Cadwallader, I had attempted to keep my studio and hobby a secret, for she knows a great deal about the fine arts, her expertise derived from her childhood in Bath and time spent abroad. I had wished to avoid her judgement.
After a brief chat about composition, Lorelai departed and soon returned with her own supplies. She perched on a stool beside me, then started work on her masterpiece, a painting of the moors. We continued our leisure and talked until Arthur summoned us for a picnic.
The conversation with Lorelai was more personal than my recent interactions with Arthur. She enquired of my writing, for she has caught me with stacks of paper on multiple occasions. She also mentioned her suitor, who teaches at the Royal Academy of Arts—a Mr. Francis O’Connor. Do you know of him? According to Lorelai, he is well connected.
I best conclude my ramble. The ball takes place in a few days, and I have yet to request ample provisions. My cook threatens to serve ham and stottie cakes if I fail to finalize a menu by tonight. Part of me wishes to see Arthur’s reaction to such dishes.
Come visit us, Josephine, once you receive these letters. Your presence would surely lighten everyone’s mood and restore Cadwallader to the proper home it should be.
Yours ever,
Elias Roch
April 28, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
Lorelai found my letters today while assisting Mrs. Dunstable with chores. She cornered me in the parlour and waved the papers, a silly grin stretching her face. She yelled, “Elias Roch fancies a girl. How marvellous.”
Forgive me for not hiding the messages. Of course, I plan to post them once I learn your address, which means you will receive a bundle of letters eventually. They will likely come as a shock, for no one would expect to receive a pile of ramblings from someone they met once.
Arthur sprinted into the parlour and snatched the letters from Lorelai. He paraded them about, daring to read my words aloud. I tackled him to the floor. Lorelai laughed harder than ever, then beat me with a cushion. A peculiar turn of events. I would never have thought Lorelai capable of brawling.
Our skirmish ended with Arthur surrendering the letters. He begged me to send them, and I promised I would if he helped to find your address. What good are words if left unreceived? More so, what do I have to lose by expressing my desire to know you, Josephine?
Lorelai came to my study this afternoon. She apologized for betraying my confidence and offered to assist me with the letter writing. I refused her proposal, but I did inquire about girls and their views on romance.
Women live according to a different set of rules. At least, that’s what I gathered from Lorelai’s explanation. She told me ladies dislike men who express intentions too soon, but they also dislike men who refrain from expressing intentions. They want men to call on them but not too much. They want men to write to them but not too often.
They want a lot of things, and it all seems complicated.
Pardon me if I fail to abide by the rules. Men function more simply. For example, when Arthur and I quarrel, we punch each other and move on. Forgive and forget. And if I wish to befriend a gentleman, I comment on a sport and offer him a drink, and nothing more is required.
That said, I ask for your grace. I may express intentions too soon and write too often. I may not pen the right words or communicate with clarity. However, you must know I regard you with the upmost respect.
Yours ever,
Elias
P.S. I started drafting a novel last night. The writing itself is quite poor, but I enjoy the story. It was inspired by true events. Perhaps I shall become a novelist and my books will sit on shelves alongside Shelley and Austen. One can aspire.
May 3, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I would like to report my excitement about tonight’s ball. I do not wish to jump from my study’s window, nor have I spent hours rehearsing dances in private. However, the parishioner claims lying is a divine offense. So yes, I did in fact practice my dance steps, and I considered fleeing the house. No party is complete without at least one escape attempt.
This morning Arthur and Lorelai agreed to join me on a ride to town. According to Mrs. Dunstable,
