“Celebrate. Yes,” Josephine said, her bottom lip quivering. She reached for a teapot. Her elbow struck a soup bowl and tipped it to the side, dumping cream onto the tablecloth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me—”
“It’s no problem. We make a lot of messes here.” Elias pressed his napkin onto the spill. He refilled Josephine’s cup with tea, a flutter stirring within him as her mouth tugged into a gentle smile. A smile that returned the light to her eyes.
A smile meant only for him.
“You’re in good company,” Elias said. He should’ve realized Josephine had lost her father. Was the tragedy responsible for her visit to Cadwallader?
He battled the urge to embrace her, for nobody had hugged him when his mother died. No one had scooped him into their arms and dried his tears. He’d broken alone and healed poorly, like an unset bone. Maybe he and Josephine could hurt together. Maybe the broken parts of him would fit the broken parts of her, and somehow, against all odds, they’d make each other whole.
“Pour the champagne,” Mr. Darling said to the butler.
“What’s the cause for celebration?” Elias spooned white soup into his mouth, the creamy broth soothing his hunger with tastes of veal and almonds.
“Did Sebastian not tell you?” Mrs. Darling furrowed her brow, perhaps shocked by her son’s restraint. “He’s engaged to Miss De Clare.”
“Engaged?” Elias choked on the word.
“Betrothed,” Widow De Clare said. “I could not hope for a better match.”
“We finalized the arrangement months ago.” Mr. Darling raised his champagne in a toast. “To Sebastian and Josephine—may you find happiness together.”
The clink of glasses broke that hope still alive within Elias. He grew stiff in his chair and glanced at Josephine. No, she couldn’t wed Sebastian. Why would she agree to the marriage? She despised him. And what about Sebastian’s mood? He didn’t love her. In fact, the betrothal explained his grumbles at the stream bank.
Elias wheezed. He braced his weight against the table. As he attempted to wrap his mind around the truth, something collapsed within him as if he had constructed a mansion of cards—a cathedral of dreams—and with a breath, it tumbled down.
Didn’t Josephine want more than Sebastian and Cadwallader Park? She had prospects. She could experience the world. Of course, that was the beauty of potential—it liked to make itself useful, but it also enjoyed sitting idle and gathering dust.
“Tell me about the upstairs ghost,” Josephine said with a sigh, her nose reddening. She looked at Elias as though to distract herself from the adults’ conversation.
“Are you sure? It’s a gruesome story . . . that I will invent just for you,” Elias said. He tried not to look at Josephine, for candlelight blurred around her face like a halo.
The very sight of her made his chest ache.
“Do share your wicked tale, Bag Head. I wish to be frightened.” She crossed her arms and motioned for him to commence his narrative.
Elias needed to stifle all romantic feelings. He knew better. He’d sworn never to want beyond his means. Even so, he felt an attachment binding him to Josephine, and the strands of his sanity hung loose.
He’d built a fortress around his emotions, then left the front door wide open.
After dinner everyone retreated to the drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Darling entertained Widow De Clare while their youngest children played dominoes. Sebastian retired to his chambers, leaving Josephine to linger near the bookcase with her third cup of tea.
Elias pretended to read a novel. He mustn’t further involve himself. If anything, he should avoid Josephine until his feelings dimmed. Nothing could happen between them. He’d be a fool to dream otherwise. Still, the sight of her standing alone twisted his stomach into knots.
He snatched a doily off a side table and walked to her side. “What did you think of my ghost story, Miss De Clare?” He draped the lace over his head and bowed.
“Bravo. I am scared out of my wits,” Josephine said with a laugh. She relaxed against the bookcase and set her teacup on a shelf. “Will you stay here long?”
“Until my father summons me.” Elias stuffed the doily into his coat pocket. He clasped his hands behind his back. He lifted his chin. “Father thinks I should behave like Sebastian.”
“You’re joking?”
“No, I’m serious. Father wants Sebastian to teach me the ways of high society. So far, my cousin has taught me to style my hair, spend money, and play spin-the-sot.”
“All important lessons. How would you live without them?”
“I’m not sure. Like a normal person, I suppose.”
Josephine launched off the bookcase and twirled to face him. “Try not to change, Mr. Welby. England doesn’t need two Sebastian Darlings.”
A new feeling breezed through Elias like wind from a horse race, like wings unfurling from their neat positions and stretching into full span. He grinned until his cheeks ached. Yes, he should put distance between him and his cousin’s fiancée. Yes, he risked heartbreak and scandal.
But she gave him hope when the well of it ran dry.
SEVEN
JOSIE
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Monday, June 27, 10:16 AM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Let’s Talk About Boys
Hey Faith,
I read more of Elias’s writing. I’ll share thoughts about it later. Right now, I want to talk about Noah, Rashad, and all the crummy boys in our lives. I mean, Noah isn’t crummy. But he’s a boy. And boys scramble our senses because . . . well, they’re boys, and we’re girls.
Put aside your expectations for this email. I won’t babble about Cadwallader or Elias Roch. I won’t even mention the horrible weather (although it deserves a rant of its own).
Your breakup caused me to tumble down a mental rabbit hole. I can’t stop thinking about my relationship with Rashad. For months, I thought he was this punky superstar. Not even David Beckham compared. I mean, Rashad
