I suppose Lorelai does care about me.
The news spread through Atteberry. Again, I blame Mrs. Dunstable. Locals visited the house to pay their respects. I did not think people noticed my residence at the estate, but they brought food and wished me well. Some of the farmers even gathered to say a prayer. Indeed, they are so good-natured. I cannot imagine what I did to earn their regard.
Lorelai asserts I need to better receive affection. She cornered me yesterday and said I was foolish to assume myself negligible. Our friendship has mended. We paint in the evenings and visit Arthur’s grave. Not once has Lorelai mentioned what occurred at the ball. Instead, she wishes to know about you, how we met, and if I plan to declare intentions.
She insists I contact the directory in Bath. Apparently lots of young ladies go there during the social season for its assembly rooms. Lorelai believes you may reside in the city until September and wants me to make inquiries. My unsent letters seem to fascinate her, so much so that she advises me what to write. Now we both hope to find you, Josephine.
Without Arthur here, Lorelai spends a great deal of time with me. She doesn’t appear bothered by possible rumours. During our last conversation, she mentioned her scheme to visit London prior to her return home, for Mr. O’Connor has expressed interest in courtship. She anticipates a marriage proposal.
At present I write to you from the gorse alcove. I sprawl on a patchwork quilt of leaves and scribble without disruption. The shrubs are in bloom, their blossoms a bright yellow and smelling of tropical fruit. How could I feel despondent in such a place?
Nature heals like a ginger tonic. It fixes the parts of me no physician can see.
My thoughts seem changed now. Since infancy I have endeavoured to be worthy of the inheritance. I allowed other people to determine what I wanted and how I lived. Then Father died, and the money was placed in my hands. I hated it, truly, for the wealth did not give me satisfaction. It failed to confirm Father’s affection or to transform me into someone I admired.
The court case has presented an opportunity for me to wipe the slate clean. I could rid myself of the Roch title, cast aside expectations, and start anew. However, these past few days proved I am not my father. I decide the path set before me, and so I shall face Thomas Roch and Admiral Gipson. I shall not relent, for this fight belongs to me. It is mine to win.
My future is not contingent on the whims of others. I want a real home and family, and I believe such things attainable. Of course, one’s belief cannot be allowed to suffocate under the tyranny of small minds, for hope itself does not hinge on the faith of the masses, rather the singular soul.
And I hope most ardently.
Lorelai begs me to write my feelings with directness, for she knows I have withheld a certain sentiment from these letters. Although I risk offense, I wish you to know my intentions and the emotions that compel my pursuit. I love you, Josephine.
I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you.
After I learn your address and this legal matter ends, I would like to solicit an audience with you and suggest a courtship. Our separation has confirmed that my attachment is more than mere infatuation. I miss you. Each letter I write reminds me of your distance. I need a day with you, then another. I need an infinite amount of last days with you because none of them, no matter what we do, will be good enough to encapsulate how much I love you.
Please do me the honour of considering my request. I shall not surrender hope until I know whether you share my affection. For a moment with you, I wait an eternity.
Yours ever,
Elias Roch
August 13, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
The court date approaches like the storms that spool black over the moorland ridges and progress in a slow creep. I cannot escape its looming presence. Mrs. Dunstable marked every calendar in the house to encourage communal support and insists the cook serve my favourite soup to, as she lovingly puts it, improve my wounded morale. She and Lorelai do their best to calm my nerves, but they hover like anxious parents, always checking on me, asking if I need more tea and firewood. Yes, I appreciate their efforts, but I would not mind less attention. They watch as if I am dying but they cannot bear to tell me.
Lorelai refuses to leave Cadwallader until after the trial. Every morning, she comes to my study and helps sort through the documents Father’s lawyers posted to me. She thinks I shall gather enough proof to support my case. I want to share her enthusiasm, but just last week I rode to Newcastle and met with my barrister, and he seemed uneasy.
Thomas Roch’s claims revolve around hearsay. No one can prove fraud, and the will includes signatures from two witnesses. However, if my cousin finds a judge who dislikes bastards, I stand no chance. The nature of my birth seems a great offense.
In a month’s time, I shall enter the courthouse and plead my case. I cannot determine what happens to me. I can only control how I respond to it.
Josephine, I shall write to you again soon. My solicitor and barrister wish to meet with me, so I return to Newcastle tomorrow. Pray they bear good news.
Yours ever,
Elias
P.S. I wrote to the directory a fortnight ago. A lady by the name of Miss Catherine Wood responded and said a Josephine De Clare was reported at 11 Great Pulteney Street.
September 23, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I went to court today, and not a thing went right. I stood in a whirlpool of angry voices, the room tight and reeking of bodies and urine.
