Please do not go lightly into our separation, Josephine. If I am to lose you forever, I best know soon, while these wounds, this anguish, are deep and fresh. Let me suffer the loss of you now, before I rise off my knees and endeavour a step forward. Let me grieve. Let me break. Or be real and let me speak to you once more. What should mean so little has altered me entirely.
My fire burns low. I must venture beyond these four walls to retrieve wood. Do wish me luck. No matter how bright the sunrises, this place remains a shadowland.
Yours ever,
Elias
June 17, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
We buried Arthur today. Lorelai arranged the funeral, a humble service in the estate’s cemetery followed by a reception at the main house. The following people were in attendance: Lady Seymore, Edward and Mary Rose, the vicar of a local parish, and Arthur’s relations. His parents and two younger siblings arrived from Durham yesterday afternoon, much to my staff’s relief. Six days with a dead man in the dining room had created a foul stench.
Pardon my indelicacies. I do not know the proper way to report a death. When my mother passed, the servants buried her without fuss, according to Father’s cook. A vicar read scriptures before they lowered her into the ground. The housekeeper sang an off-key rendition of “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” Then everyone returned to the manor for afternoon tea.
I did not cry during Arthur’s funeral. Mary Rose snivelled. Lorelai wept into a handkerchief. But I remained dry-eyed and stiff, every fibre of my body taut with rage or sadness—or the guilt of drinking with Arthur that day. If possible, I would have torn open my chest and crawled out of the hurt. I would have returned to the manor and dumped its store of alcohol into the kitchen yard.
Humanity knows not to take big things for granted. We understand the importance of loved ones, health, acceptance, but what about the billion other elements that define who we are? Big we see. For big, we toss and turn at night, fearing big loss. And yet the little things we overlook. Forgetting to savour life’s details, such as the taste of fresh scones or the scent of books opened for the first time, is our greatest deprivation. Such pleasures are not subject to change. However, we change. Our hearts break, and pastries lose their flavour. Love dies, and our senses dull. By losing a big thing, we lose all the littles by default.
The funeral reception served currant scones flavoured with lemon curd. I took a bite, and the cake turned to ash in my mouth. All I could think about was Arthur’s coffin.
If not for the guests, I would have emptied my stomach into a chamber pot.
Mr. Banes approached me while his wife mourned in the drawing room. He grabbed my shoulder and said, “It wasn’t your fault, lad.” His statement lifted a weight from my shoulders, but it did not absolve me. No, I was not to blame. Everyone knew of Arthur’s reckless behaviour.
I blame myself, though.
The family plans to stay at Cadwallader until tomorrow morning. Lorelai entertains them downstairs while I sit in Arthur’s former bedroom. His belongings—clothes, figurines, a cricket bat—clutter the space. Someone needs to pack the items into a trunk, but I cannot manage it.
Grief follows me, Josephine. Must I lose every person and thing I hold dear? Love and loss coincide, I suppose. Love teaches us how to live with, and loss forces us to live without.
We love so we can lose.
Elias
P.S. The De Clare Family in London replied to my query. They are not familiar with you.
NINE
THE NOVEL
Josephine De Clare seemed to pull light into Cadwallader Park. For an entire week, she and Elias wandered the estate. They put on plays with Kitty and Fitz, swapped ghost stories at dinner, and made fun of Sebastian’s tall hats. Elias laughed until his stomach hurt. He smiled until he couldn’t see Josephine without grinning. That’s when he knew.
In other circumstances, she might have been his dearest friend.
Their outings and games only magnified Elias’s affection, so he stopped participating in Josephine’s escapades. He maintained a suitable distance, for his father had warned him about scandal. One bout of misconduct, even a rumour, might cause Lord Welby to disinherit him. A Welby bastard needed to be above reproach. No drunkenness or debauchery.
No relations with a cousin’s fiancée.
Elias would not let his emotions outwit him. Why should he risk his station when the future seemed certain? Josephine would marry Sebastian and become lady of the manor. She would forget him, and no amount of pining could prompt a different fate.
He must sever the friendship between them. Any communication—small talk, a glance at dinner—stoked the embers burning in his chest. He was fond to the point of being smitten. He was devoted until he was hers, completely.
The attachment frustrated him, for no amount of distance seemed to break it. He observed from an upstairs window as Josephine played cricket with Sebastian. He cracked open his door when she and Kitty raced down the hallway in their nightgowns, their arms filled with chocolate.
Distance was not enough. In seclusion he thought about Josephine, though he tried to distract himself with books and letters. Even his dreams swept him back to the bonfire party, where he kissed her again and again. He imagined that night until it drove him mad. Of course, love seemed too strong a word to use on a stranger. Love seemed foolish to waste on a kiss.
But that depended
