Arthur refuses to share what bothers him. Whenever I ask, he laughs and tells me to cheer up. He smacks the back of my head. He drinks another pint.
Writing has become my diversion from such things. I write so as not to fret about Lorelai, Arthur, and my inheritance. I write so as to avoid another panic episode.
The pastime seems like pouring wine into water. It improves the taste of my life but does little else. Where are you, Josephine? Each day that passes without news of you magnifies this sense—this ache—that I shall never hear from you again. I find my letters almost pointless.
Poets use countless words to describe their pain, but I need only three: I miss you.
Cadwallader is a palette of grey, coloured by black birds in the gorse shrubs and Lorelai’s blue dress. I want more red and gold, more laughter and music. I want more of you.
After everything we have endured, I must cling to the belief that our stories will collide in the end. I need hope. And if I cannot hope in us, I shall lose hope in everything else.
Yours ever,
Elias
June 1, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
Be not alarmed on reading this letter, by the apprehension that it might renew the sentiments described in my previous messages. I wish not for your discomfort, only to continue the friendship we began weeks ago. Indeed, my writing is not a means to subject you to flirtation or declaration of intentions, which would, of course, be inappropriate.
Please do not allow my foolishness to prevent your correspondence.
Your friend,
Elias Roch
P.S. Both my accountant and great-uncle sent news from London. They met a Mr. Rupert De Clare who recently buried his brother. I plan to contact the family and enquire about you.
June 12, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
Arthur died yesterday. He fell off his horse during a hunt, an accident caused by too much ale. The doctor said Arthur bashed his skull on a rock and likely did not suffer. I disagree, for when I rushed to my friend’s side, he was awake and struggling to speak. I lifted him into my lap and rode over the south ridge, but he passed on before we reached the house.
I am not sure what more to write. Etiquette requires me to soften this news with formalities, but I cannot muster them. Arthur Banes died in a blink. Now his body lies on the dining room table, swaddled by a wool shroud.
Lorelai refuses to leave her chambers. She will not eat, nor will she receive visitors. Mrs. Dunstable paces the halls like a distressed hound while my cook prays over Arthur’s corpse. What a horrible word. Blame, is that all he is—nothing more than a dead creature?
I must send word to Arthur’s family and request their presence at his funeral. I have grieved so much, but loss does not dim with practice. If anything, it gains momentum.
Yours ever,
Elias
June 13, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
This manor no longer seems a haven, rather a graveyard. Its eerie demeanour confines me to my chambers, where I huddle near the fireplace. Ghosts do not lurk in the corridors. However, they haunt my thoughts. I covet the fire’s glow, so memories cannot claim me.
Arthur died two days ago. His body lies downstairs, washed and clothed, surrounded by flowers. The longer he stays above ground, the more unsettled everyone becomes. My cook will not visit the main floor. Mrs. Dunstable rents a room at White Horse Inn, for she refuses to stay at Cadwallader past nightfall.
Pray my letters reach Arthur’s kin soon. They reside in Durham, a day’s ride south. Lord willing, they shall come and allow me to bury Arthur in the estate’s cemetery. I must put this tragedy behind me. I cannot sleep without reliving his death. Whenever I close my eyes, I watch him tumble off his horse. I hear the crack of his skull against stone.
Rest denies Lorelai too.
Last night I found her in the dining room, crouched beside Arthur. She held a single candle. Its flame wavered in the darkness, its wax forming lumps on her fingers. She did not react to the burns. Instead, she hummed a lullaby jagged with sobs.
She claimed the house was too silent.
She missed Arthur’s music.
I knelt beside her and kept quiet, for words could not ease her pain. A gut-wrenching ache burrowed down my throat into my lungs.
The loss did not seem real even then. Arthur was sprawled in front of me, white as porcelain, yet my mind whispered, “He’s fine. All shall be well tomorrow.” I wanted to cry with Lorelai. I needed to get mad and sob and tell her I was sorry for letting him drink that day. I was so very sorry. But my tongue was still. And I could not shed a tear. I was porcelain, yet I was living, and my friend was dead. He was dead. Nothing would be well tomorrow.
Lorelai spoke about her relationship with Arthur, their childhoods, how she thought of him as a brother. She leaned against my shoulder and cried.
You told me everyone suffers anguish, yet we consider it a malady, something to conceal and medicate. You said we should talk about what pains us, but I believe there are some pains best left unspoken. Words give power to feelings, and not all feelings deserve power. Indeed, suffering together eases the isolation of grief. However, it cannot prevent the grief.
Sorrow is a sharable weight but a solo process.
When dawn flooded the room with blue light, I forced Lorelai to stand. A gentleman would have coddled and comforted, but exhaustion dulled my manners. I guided her to a back door and said, “Waste no more tears, Miss Glas. Arthur does not require our watch nor our lament.”
Lorelai and I exited the manor. We moved through the garden to a pasture coated with dew. There, among the tall grass, we sat and watched gossamer clouds float across the horizon.
I invited Lorelai to
