My hands won’t stop trembling, so I apologize if my words are jumbled. I considered waiting until the panic subsided, but . . . I must tell you what happened.
This morning I resumed my scavenger hunt. A giant mistake. I should’ve gone outside and pressure-washed the front stoop, but mist hovered thick on the moors, and I didn’t want to suffer the cold. Instead, I looked for Elias’s studio. I went to the third floor and peered into each room. Someone had emptied a lot of the chambers, so I didn’t expect to find anything. However, I noticed a door beside the staircase. It blended into the panelling, its knob the only giveaway.
Obviously, I opened the door.
Grey light spilled into the room from a single window. Easels crowded the space, and paintings dotted the walls. I coughed. Dust clung to the air like smoke. No one had entered the studio in years, proven by the undisturbed layer of grime that coated the floorboards.
I wandered among the artwork until I reached the fireplace. That’s when I saw it—the portrait of Josephine from Elias’s letter. It hung over the mantel, discoloured and smeared with soot.
But its likeness was unmistakable.
My heart skipped a beat. I stumbled backward and knocked over a painting—a blonde girl in a white frock. The room seemed to shrink around me, narrowing into a tunnel with a face at one end, a door at the other. I couldn’t breathe, so I fled the studio.
He painted me, Faith. It was me on his wall. How is any of this possible? How did a man from two hundred years ago know about me?
And why do I have this feeling I’m supposed to know him too?
Josie
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Friday, July 8, 6:22 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Plot Twist
Elias met a girl with my name and face. He wrote about her, and the character he created resembled me too. He wanted to post letters to her, but something happened.
He never found her address.
I can’t wrap my mind around this situation. Whenever I type Elias’s name into a search engine, nothing comes up. When I look for information about Josephine Emilia De Clare, I find only details about myself. The old Josephine doesn’t appear in any public databases.
Our suspicions cannot be true. I refuse to believe Elias loved me, because I’m here and he’s not. Letting myself hope seems foolish. I mean, nobody rational expects to find their Mr. Darcy. As girls, we know what kind of love we’re allowed. Our men flock to the pubs and watch rugby with their mates, not write us letters filled with phrases like “I’m ardently yours.”
Why search for Elias Roch in a world of Rashads?
Josie
ELEVEN
ELIAS
July 4, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I find myself in an impossible predicament, and no amount of civil behaviour can save me. Society will not rest until my station unravels. They come for the Roch fortune like hounds ready to devour all I have left. Besides the fact my wealth and title will not withstand their efforts, I fear Arthur’s death has weakened me. I cannot be prevailed upon to feel anything but fatigue.
At present I write to you from my coach. A lantern swings from the ceiling, and damp air gusts between curtains. My driver shouts at the horses as we travel the moors at a reckless speed. Perhaps I should request a gentler pace, for the carriage rattles, and my penmanship suffers.
Nothing could tempt my strength, not after tonight’s affairs. I accepted Lady Seymore’s invitation and spent the evening at Bletchley Place. The visit began without incident. Lady Seymore introduced me to her guests, all of whom embraced my presence with conversation.
Dinner included fifteen dishes, my favourites being the white soup and stuffed partridges. Lady Seymore gave all guests a tour of the main floor prior to the meal. She talked about her late husband’s fascination with French design, hence the abundance of Parisian furnishings. She led us into chambers with satin wallpaper and gilded fireplaces. Really, if I had known what awaited me in the dining room, I would have attempted to prolong the jaunt.
As luck would have it, I ended up at the farthest corner of the table, seated across from a clergyman. Lady Seymore’s mother sat to my right, her age encouraging bouts of slumber.
I might have enjoyed the companionship if not for Admiral Gipson’s arrival.
He joined the party as footmen served beef and mutton. His presence, more so his navy uniform, demanded attention. Everyone paused conversation to inspect his decorated blazer.
The admiral kissed Lady Seymore’s wrist and apologized for his tardiness. He sat in the chair to my left, his clothes reeking of tobacco and Bay Rum. Without looking at me, he said, “I read in the paper about your friend’s accident. My condolences.”
I nearly spilled my drink at his impertinent unwillingness to introduce himself to me before conversing. The remainder of the evening confirmed his refusal to acknowledge me as Lord Roch.
Admiral Gipson straightened his ornaments, perhaps to flaunt his proficiencies. He enquired as to whether I planned to occupy my family home in Durham. I told him I preferred Cadwallader Manor, and he said, “You had good sense to move into that place. Indeed, a bastard does not merit the right to manage a prominent estate. Perhaps you should relinquish—”
Lady Seymore interrupted with a question about news from town, thus diverting the dialogue to matters of gossip and entertainment.
It was just as well. Shock rendered me speechless. I did not finish my dinner, rather I stared at the table’s centrepiece like a fool. Admiral Gipson desired me
